Like Berlin, Hamburg doesn’t rate too highly when considering international gastronomic destinations. This is also a fair designation, but it’s worth noting that not only is it’s cuisine significantly different from that of the adjoining Prussian sphere, it’s situated in another milieu entirely. Unlike Berlin, which was the seat of an empire but never a vital trade crossroads, Hamburg is one of two (formerly three) independently governed German city-states, all of whom operated as dynamic medieval trade nodes, creating a far more cosmopolitan character overall. Along with Bremen (and their former partner Lübeck) they were anchors of the vaunted Hanseatic League, a continent-spanning guild that for centuries dominated international commerce throughout the North and Baltic Seas.
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In April I made an expedition to two locations which, while notable destinations in their own right, are not particularly famous for their food. Yet far from providing a shortage of gustatory stimulation, I've learned that trips like this often allow for a finer focus, both on specific local pleasures, and less likely ones that have filtered in from abroad. The second stop (saved for the next post) was the Netherlands, whose national cuisine benefits from fresh produce and dairy (thanks to ultra-modern farming practices) but whose flavors seem wan next to that of its former colonial holdings. The first is Berlin, a banner city for the famously rich gastronomic quilt that is Germany, but also one that sits on its fringes, marked by the staid cold-weather fare of the former Prussian empire. The city’s biggest culinary champion is probably currywurst, the rare dish that somehow manages a decrease in the quality of the run-of-the-mill German sausage.
Just past North Truro sits Provincetown, the terminus of the Cape, a seaside burg that doubles as a sleepy fishing village and a thriving gay hotspot, the latter apparently a residual effect of its historic status as final point on summer stock theatre tours. The fishermen who once made up the majority of the town’s population are still here (albeit in diminished numbers) a presence evidenced by the wealth of Portuguese flags hanging on nearby houses and the prevalence of bolos levedos in local supermarkets. Yet all the old specialty restaurants have closed, leaving only a smattering of dishes at select spots, Vinho de Alho pork chops mixing with old-fashioned Yankee fare like Salisbury steak at a place like The Mayflower. The last bastion of this culture is the town’s Portuguese Bakery, which has operated without fail since the earliest days of the 20th century.
It’s been over a month now since Pokémon Go finally revealed the hidden network of acquirable pocket monsters lurking around the nooks and crannies of our cities, parks and coastlines. In that vein, it’s worth remembering that the search for snacks is a bit similar in spirit, especially when the result leads to a miniature bag of Irish crisps emblazoned with a snaggletoothed, cherry-red gremlin. Sourced from the somewhat inexplicable UK-themed section of a local Key Food, these chips are indeed monstrous, blasted with a bracing pickled flavor that makes plain old salt and vinegar seem mild by comparison. This falls in line with the apparent British propensity for strongly flavored snacks, a taste which has spawned everything from Prawn Cocktail to Ham & Mustard and Marmite flavors. Indulging in a bit of speculation, I’d like to imagine these as the modern equivalent to the pickled onions that sat astride the voluminous Ploughman’s Lunch, or the raw onions often put out for snacking alongside a pint of lager at an old-fashioned pub. I also love this packaging, which confirms that for an outsider, this snack has it all: a bizarrely decorated bag, small enough for the intense contents to not out-stay their welcome, with a possibly interesting back-story. The Irish may feel differently, however, as a comment on this well-informed ranking of Irish crisps doesn’t even mention Meanies, with a commenter actually referring to them as a “poor man’s Monster Munch.” Munch may be the original, on the market since the mid '70s, with a similar stable of strong flavors (Smoky Bacon, Roast Beef, and Saucy Cheese & Onion, in addition to the aforementioned Pickled Onion). I still vastly prefer this packaging, with its genuinely ghastly hellion (somehow even surlier than this similar Mega Meanies spokesdemon) displayed on a field of green, to the goofy, faux-Muppet mascot of Munch. As for the taste comparison, only time will tell, and I’ll certainly be on the lookout for Munch in the future, even if it may be awhile before I have my next Pickled Onion Crisps craving.
A good, if not exactly terroir-oriented, way to gauge the tastes of a place is through its sodas. These will generally provide you with a shorthand barometer of the national sweet tooth, and also a concise sampling of some of the fruits, flavors and spices favored by locals. Looking at soda, in the case of formerly colonized countries, can also be an inroad toward surmising the influence of the colonizer(s) upon those tastes. The most extensive example of this may be Vimto, the king of the colonial sodas, a nominally British beverage that now enjoys far greater popularity in Asia, the Caribbean and especially the Middle East. A similar situation occurs with the lingering specter of Peardrax, a drink which, although now discontinued in its country of origin, continues to enjoy robust popularity in Trinidad & Tobago, where it’s taken on status as a sort of national soda, a status it shares with its autumnal apple partner Cydrax. All this with names that sound like under-the-sink cleaning agents. Caribbean sodas often grow out of a prior traditional of fermented alcoholic and non-alcoholic brews, skewing toward approximations of juices from fruits (or roots) which, if not always native, at least have some entrenched history in the area. Pear and apple ciders, on the other hand, innately seem like cold-weather concoctions, which would explain why the 'Drax favored at Christmas, and enjoys a likely-related popularity as a toasting drink on special occasions. Both draxes were originally products of the now-defunct Whiteway Orchards (a fact still noted on the label), based in the bucolic southwestern English town of Whimple (a pleasant pastoral picture of the former orchard can be found here). As for the taste, despite the long distance from Devonshire, Peardrax definitely remains true to its cidery roots, with a slightly sweet flavor that’s redolent of hard cider stripped of alcohol. I’m not entirely clear, however, why the drink description on the bottle bears French text.
If only all cans were this beautiful, evoking the fresh driven snows of the Alps via pure white packaging and the fresh-faced grins of two young soda sippers. The colors here actually point back to the flag of Austria, where Almdudler was born in 1957. The name (according to Wikipedia at least) roughly translates to “yodeling in the Alpine pasture," and the taste is pretty much as close to that image as you can get in soda form.
"Sergeant my wife is currently taking a course at the continental school of gourmet cooking. Apparently they’ve never heard of the principle that to eat well in this country, one has to have breakfast three times a day. And an English breakfast at that.”
Frenzy (Alfred Hitchcock, 1972) Foreign food as a nightmarish culinary imposition A few months back, before she embarked on a trip to Liguria, I asked friend and indefatigable human powerhouse Kim Macron to jot down a few impressions of the regional cuisine. Accompanied by her equally impressive husband Simo, a native of the Genoa area, she spent several weeks gathering firsthand info on local eating habits. Upon returning, she continued to build on this foundational knowledge, through a diligent program of additional research which now, several weeks later, has resulted in an embarrassment of riches on the topic. These form the backbone to an in-depth guide to Ligurian eating, which I’ll be presenting, unabridged, in a series of 11 installments. The first, devoted to pesto, delves into the essential green mortar of Ligurian cuisine.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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