Terrifying news: Shock Top Man, perhaps the most effortlessly douchey of all corporate logos, botanical avatar of Offspring frontman Dexter Holland, has evolved. He now sports a visor. His smooth-faced apple visage, featured to the right, is less intensely terrible but perhaps even more chilling.
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By Kim Macron
Focaccia (fugassa in Genovese) derives from the Latin word focus, for “hearth.” Some believe that this flatbread originated with the Greeks or Etruscans, but focaccia genovese, as it’s known today, was first recorded in the 500s CE, used in churches during wedding ceremonies. There are conflicting sources about whether or not it was used solely for religious functions/celebrations, but it is known is that focaccia eating became so commonplace in church (beyond weddings and celebrations), that a bishop had to ban it during funeral services. Most bodega signs are cluttered, confusing, clashingly coded pieces of art, defined by a helter-skelter approach to food presentation. This, however, is a work of art, presenting a beautifully united front and getting the message with total directness. Layered neatly beneath a clear horizon line, this smorgasbord of sandwiches stands like a gang of beefy-armed bodyguards, ready to back up the bold 'Best Food in the Neighborhood' claim. One sandwich flows into another, avoiding overlap and crowding. The colors are even matched, the stock food images looking genuinely edible. Bonus points for the stacked layout of chips on the shelves inside, furthering the impression of order while subliminally suggesting a partner for all these hefty sandwiches.
By Kim Macron
Focaccia al formaggio, often described as a specialty of Recco, likely originates less specifically within the entire Mount Portofino region, which also includes Camogli, Sori, and various other small mountain towns. People in these areas were historically menaced by pirate attacks and invasions, the earliest recorded in 934 C.E., when Saracen raiders from North Africa sacked and burned Genova. Such attacks continued throughout the medieval era, on both Genova and Liguria at large, with Barbary pirates picking up much of the slack in later centuries. During one of these incursions, residents of the Mount Portofino region sent their elderly, women, and children up into the mountains, with the intention of removing them from immediate threat. In the hills, the Ligurian locals had more safety but fewer resources, forcing them to adapt their food preparation to what was available. Enter focaccia al formaggio, a barebones dish consisting of two slim sheets of focaccia, with a layer of soft cheese spread thinly between the dough. This focaccia’s dough skips yeast, consisting of flour, water, oil, and salt. The original recipe used a soft, fresh sheep's cheese obtained from bartering with the mountainous region’s many shepherds. Nowadays, instead of sheep's cheese, the recipe calls for stracchino, a soft brie-like cow's cheese, which is spreadable, lusciously creamy and addictingly delicious. The focaccia is baked until the top layer is golden brown and crisp and the cheese begins to bubble a bit. In the early 1900s, to gain tourist interest in a 'specialty' food, the beachside town of Recco began advertising this as “focaccia al formaggio di Recco,” garnering an unmerited association with a dish that more fairly encompasses the entire surrounding area. Sometimes you find the best things when you’re not even looking. Case in point: the astonishing appearance of this delightful collection of chips as offerings at a recent birthday party, sourced from a Chip of the Month Club with an expansive sense of humor. A quartet of flavors designed to approximate the characteristic snacking tastes of corn-fed ‘American’ eaters, these seem about authentically down-home as Larry, actually the nom-de-shtick of Pawnee City, Nebraska’s Dan Whitney. There was debate at this gathering about whether Whitney is a faux-hick opportunist, a skilled performance artist or just a middle-aged comedian now trapped in character forever, but most agreed that the chips flavors were surprisingly reserved, despite the bag’s claims of screen-door-bustin’ flavor. Arranged randomly for this picture, the order here ended up being a pretty good scale of their quality. The ketchup chips (a puzzling Canadian phenomenon that would probably be fodder for a future post, would I ever deign to purchase a bag) were good for what they were, less assaultive and one-note than the Fire Engine Red Herr’s variety, still bit too aggressive for my tastes. The ‘wings’ were accurate but uninspiring, like powdered Frank’s Red Hot sprinkled over thin chips. BBQ was less oppressively sweet than most varieties, but also not especially compelling. The revelation here was biscuits and gravy, which also somehow had the fewest ingredients of all the flavors, a mere half dozen or so, if you allow for the bag’s decision to bundle ‘seasonings’ together as one. There’s no real hint of biscuit here, but the gravy taste is piquant and subtle. These are only the tip of the iceberg, in addition to a line of bread mixes and, for the inevitable punchline, dog foods. Most of these products do not seem very enticing. As for the Gravy Chips, it’s worth noting that while all snacks roughly approximate some broad cultural taste, few combine folksy aw-shucks simplicity, a balanced flavor profile and corporate mascot grotesquerie so cohesively.
My now-standard practice, upon discovering anyone I know is heading overseas, is to beg for food photos. Sometimes they oblige me. Even more rarely, they take the time to write up reactions to those photos and the country's food culture in general. Fresh off a recent trip to Iceland, perspicacious guest poster Emily Alta Hockaday has filed some quick impressions, covering hot dog men, demented pigs and the omnipresence of rhubarb. Still no answers regarding the mysterious popularity of orange soda in Scandinavian countries, but it's a start.
Located about 20 blocks north of Sunset Park’s Mexican district, El Tenampa feels like an outpost of south-of-the-border culture, an impression accentuated by its stockade-style exterior. Stretched across two storefronts and bedecked by one of the neighborhood’s more majestic (and puzzling) signs, it maintains a cluttered general store ambiance, with shelves spanning chilied garbanzo beans (in the lime-tinged style I encountered in Mexico) to mysterious dried herbs (most of them medicinal) and containers of frozen tejocote. Behind these rows of items, across a wide stretch of white tiled, folding-table filled dining room reminiscent of a VFW hall, lies Tenampa’s biggest draw, the hot foods counter. This area dishes out an impressive array of tortas, cemitas, soups and tacos which come in both large and small varieties. In the midst of an ambitious food crawl, I wasn’t in any state to consume most of these things, and so opted for a humble sope, which turned out to be much larger and heartier than expected, a bargain at four dollars.
Always on the hunt for new fillings, I opted for the unfamiliar goat panza (stomach), not even realizing at the time that I was ordering offal. I’ve eaten goat stomach once before, in little tripe-like strips nestled amid the hand-pulled noodles at Sheng Wang, which while delicious and surprisingly approachable, could not have passed as ordinary flesh. The panza, on the other hand, was much sneakier, diced and seasoned to the point where it’s rubbery qualities melted away entirely. It’s hard to say if this is a special preparation or the standard for goat panza, but other Mexican stomach applications seem more standardized. Most famous among them is probably pancita (a.k.a menudo), the hearty soup that doubles as the name of the sadly now defunct Puerto Rican boy band. Enjoying the sope (also stacked with refried beans, lettuce and cotija) on the peaceful grounds of nearby Greenwood Cemetery, there was plenty of time to reflect upon the impermanence of all things, bovid and otherwise. Following a few months of inexcusable neglect, some element of order is restored to the universe with the return of Liguria Report, a series of exhaustive inquisitions into the wonders of this magical region, as curated/researched/written by Kim Macron. The second of 11 posts focuses on trofie, one of its signature pasta shapes:
Trofie/ troffie is a traditional Ligurian gnocchi (potato pasta), composed of a dough made from flour and potatoes. When forming trofie the gnocchi are stretched and twisted, so that the ends taper to points and the center is thicker. It has been described as resembling wood shavings. Trofie is a specialty of Recco, and the name trofie likely comes from the Genovese word “strfugià,” which means “rubbing.” As with the word pesto, the name refers to the process of production, which is believed to have developed as a dough-saving measure. Ligurians are known to be very thrifty! The leftovers from making gnocchi are grouped together, and rolled (or rubbed) by hand on a floured, wooden surface, thus creating the signature “trofie” shape. There is another type of pasta called “trofiette,” which is older, and whose dough (pasta) does not contain potatoes. Trofiette is generally smaller than trofie, and was considered food for the poor. Like trofie, trofiette is made from dough scraps, although trofiette is not usually served with pesto. |
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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