Stocked with spam, hot dogs, beans and noodles, tossed into brothy combat with tofu, kimchi and gochujang, Budae Jigae is a colonialist incursion in soup form. Haphazardly developed during the Korean War, the stew grew out of desperation, as food shortages forced many to rely on excess (or smuggled) canned food acquired from American army bases. Budae Jigae (‘army stew’) served as a higher-class alternative to Kkulkkulijuk (‘pig's gruel’), a dire hot pot combination of food scraps and water sold for cheap by street vendors. 60 years later, Budae is still around, and while there’s nothing unusual about dishes shaped by necessity, few are so overtly politicized, capturing the harsh reality of wartime via the hastily combined cuisines of victim and aggressor.
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Mayonnaise has two possible origins, as salsa mahonesa, developed in 18th century Mahon, on Minorca (also home of this lovely cheese), or, if you trust the Larousse Gastronomique, in France itself, a play on moyeu, the old French word for yolk. Both stories are likely nonsense, but I’m more inclined to believe the former, since the Larousse narrative leans on two dubious etymologies (the second involving Charles de Lorraine, duke of Mayenne) and a general stink of proprietary snootiness, while ignoring the great potential origin story of Armand de Vignerot du Plessis claiming the condiment for the French after driving the British out of Mahon in 1758. Either way, mayonnaise has spent the 256 years since building its rep as of the world’s most successful sauces, spreading out across the globe in such surprising and weird variations that they probably deserve their own series of posts (Mayonnaise World?). For now I’ll be focusing on Kewpie Mayo, the ubiquitous Japanese condiment marked with the unforgettable naked baby logo - a thinner, more pungent cousin to American mayonnaise, contained within a puzzlingly pliable plastic squeeze bottle.
Fifty years ago, this corn-fed little boy would have signified rosy-cheeked health and wholesome prosperity, the fundamental distance between a big, stinky pig and a half dozen can-packed miniature smoked tube sausages underlining the miraculous promise of modern industry. Industry no longer seems so benevolent, and while the kid is still cute in a Bobby Draper sort of way, products like Prairie Belt are dusty relics, the mere mention of 'mechanically separated chicken parts' sending a shiver down most modern parents' spines. We still crush, mulch, smoke and can our food today, in addition to countless other indignities, but the focus has shifted toward pretending at preservation and harmony rather than sterilization, with the purposefully unnatural stuff falling squarely in the junk market. One further interesting detail: Prairie Belt is produced by Castleberry Foods of Augusta, Georgia, which confirms that even during its glory days this company was pushing a falsely idealized vision of heartland purity.
Photographed in front of Edgar Allen Poe's former home on Grand Concourse: one can of Mr. Brown iced coffee. Produced in Taiwan, now using milk from New Zealand after getting tangled up in China's 2008 melamine scandal, these little coffee drinks taste like a sort of muddy take on the glass bottle Frappucino, with a mascot who bears a striking resemblance to 'Big Daddy' from "The Simpsons' Spinoff Showcase."
Less a neighborhood than a fossilized, fantastical curiosity, Little Italy clings to its exaggerated Paisan image as a charm against the turmoil at its borders, embodied by ever-increasing Chinatown sprawl and encroaching Nolita/SoHo development. In constant danger of erasure, its immigrant population base long since fled to the suburbs, the area’s lingering Italian-American heritage has inflated to accommodate this vacuum, plying tourists with a cartoonish approximation of vintage New York City, via a showy spread of ‘old-fashioned’ red sauce and clam joints. All this straining for authenticity climaxes with a burst of cannoli cream and scalding fry oil during San Gennaro, the two week festival ostensibly dedicated to the patron saint of Naples, who each September 19th gets marched down Mulberry and pinned with dollar bills, a fitting ritual for a festival that seems designed to promote its accompanying neighborhood by turning its proud history into a lumbering commodity.
Inspired by the evocatively titled autumn dish, photographed on one of the first dark evenings of the season, a quick attempt to eat like a Japanese college student:
From bottom center: The aforementioned potatoes, also known as sweet sweet potatoes, reminiscent of Bao Si Taro but with a darker, deeper taste: 1.5 large ones roasted 30 minutes at 400, then pan fried in caramelized mixture of sugar (3tb), mirin (2tsp) and dark soy sauce (1tsp) and topped with sesame seeds. BL: Tofu Toast, a sort of Nippon-style Welsh Rarebit, with the consistency of soft scrambled eggs: 1/4 block of strained tofu smashed up with 2tb mayo, 1 tb soy and a squirt of hot sauce, spread onto crusty bread, topped with grated parmesan and nori strips and toasted. TL & TR: Quick miso soup, reconstituted from remnants of matzo ball broth for bonus Rosh Hashanah flavor. TC: Pan fried frozen gyoza topped with scallions BR: Sweet corn (roasted 30 min at 400) rolled in sesame oil and sprinkled with togarashi. |
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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