The Pringles Man, at one point, seemed to possess definitively human facial features, before gradually being reduced to an ovoid, anthropomorphic egg creature with the tousled hair and moustache of a 19th century barkeep. Reducing its logo to a cipher, the brand’s design budget instead seems to have been directed toward the rest of the packaging, finding perhaps its most brilliant conceit yet in the concept of a single hooked Pringle, hanging alongside two rosy Serrano hams. These Spanish delicacies, while not on par with the world-class jamón iberico (treated so luxuriously that I recently spotted one outfitted with its own sun-deflecting jacket) still rest safely on the level of classy foods not easily approximated by potato chips. I didn’t taste these Pringles, which were purchased as a souvenir, and thus can’t vouch for their likeness to charcuterie, but they serve as yet another indicator of the slightly off-kilter world of foreign snack foods, where everything is at once familiar and totally alien.
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I knew something was amiss when I arrived in Cartagena, the hour nearing midnight, the temperature still in the high nineties. Our hotel was located on the long strip of Avenida San Martin in the Bocagrande resort zone, and I was reasonably confident I could pick up a quick takeout dinner after landing without much fuss. The nearby picado place, however, didn’t do takeout, the hotel restaurant was a casino bar called ‘Masters,’ and the area was otherwise populated by uninspiring fast food options, from El Corral to Burger King to Kokoriko, Still, stubborn despite the late hour and the ridiculous humidity, I was determined not to waste this precious foreign meal on a ordinary burger. I ended up drenched in sweat at around one a.m., having ranged much further down the strip than necessary to land on a tiny Venezuelan takeout spot, where I purchased some mediocre arepas. I was bowed but not defeated.
I’m still not sure the reason, and whether this was just an exceptional period of hellish heat or some climate-changed enhanced nightmare scenario (it was winter, after all), but Cartagena is the hottest place I’ve ever been. Luckily daytime hours afforded many more convenient options, and the next day I was able to scuttle from one shadow to another to La Olla Cartegenera, an old-fashioned restaurant with an impressive, rainforest-themed backroom. Like many spots on the Bocagrande, La Olla seemed to have a Middle Eastern slant to the menu. Middle Eastern immigrants have a long history in Colombia, responsible for contributing dishes like quibbe (which pops up here and across the rest of the Caribbean, often denoted as ‘quipes,’) but I’m not sure why all these places were clustered in this one neighborhood, otherwise dominated by pale white resort towers and pizza places. Whatever the case, I skipped the falafel for a seafood sampler, hoping to get a quick overview of the local offerings. As see above, this included rock lobster, prawns in garlic sauce, some nicely marinated grilled fish and a smattering of shrimp. Visiting a foreign city always involves some measure of culinary comparison, weighing the things it has in common with home versus the differences, which may be as subtle as slight variations in coffee preparation or as extensive as rib soup for breakfast. A massive cosmopolitan center, the largest city in Colombia and the third largest in South America (behind São Paulo and Lima), Bogotá shares a lot of surface commonalities with New York. Yet the primary difference is that, for all intents and
purposes, New York is done growing. It’s already received its waves of immigrants, both domestic and foreign, and while it will continue to do so for the foreseeable future, its position and shape are now relatively fixed. Bogotá, on the other hand, has a much more open-ended set of prospects. Still in the midst of successive waves of a population boom, it’s gained nearly two million new residents in the years following the 2005 census, more than quadrupling in size since the mid ’70s. To accommodate all these people, it continues to expand outward, absorbing formerly outlying communities, the city’s character changing with each new acquisition. It’s also, as I learned trying to traverse the popular Santa Fe neighborhood, packed to the gills with young people, many of them still teenagers, which seems to ensure a continuation of the population spike. A city of this scale promises a full battery of international options, fine dining experiences and stylish nightspots, all of which Bogotá has in spades. I wasn’t really interested in any of this. What I was after was a rough picture of Colombia’s capital city as a prism for its national cuisine, refractions and reinterpretations of dishes from Nariño to Boyacá. Most of this gets supplied by the migrants flooding into the city, adding to the local Santafereño style fare with new flavors. It was a bit difficult demarcating one sub-cuisine from another, but I found that many places, especially in the city’s more working-class neighborhoods, tended to focus on the open-air cooking of the Llanos, a vast grassland in the Northeastern part of the country, which produces a sort of rustic grill culture that’s popular all over. I also spotted numerous references to the nearby Tolima, Cauca, Valle del Cauca and Santander departments. One thing all of these styles share is a fondness for meat, beef in particular reigning supreme over the rest. Colombia, with its outlandish bounty of ridiculously fresh, not-quite-ready-for the Northern Hemisphere crops, is a paradise for the fruit lover. In fact, it’s a paradise for anyone interested in plunging into a miniature universe of colorful, edible, beautiful little objects, which grant further brightness to an already vibrant landscape. The country produces a wide variety of different fruits across its several micro-climes, the majority of which find their way to Bogotá, the country’s capital and its near-geographic center. Much of this harvest is on display at Plaza de Mercado de Paloquemao, a truly spectacular temple of produce, where hundreds of vendors congregate inside an airplane hangar-sized space. The focus is mainly botanical, although Paloquemao is actually an all-purpose market, offering fish and meat and various home goods. It's also surrounded by nested conglomerations of other satellite markets, which all seem to boast boundless quantities of goods at rock-bottom prices.
On my 5th day in Colombia I found myself in a white and teal painted restaurant in Cartagena’s Old City, grateful to finally be out of the sun. The temperature was at this point topping out around a 116 heat index, twenty of those degrees coming solely from the miserable, momentum-crushing humidity. Having sweated out at least a few water bottles worth of moisture, I was soaked, scorched, and about to collapse from fatigue. This meant I was also less than enthused when the waitress brought out the complimentary Sopa de Pescado, its herb-flecked liquid steaming in a small bowl.
By Kim Macron
Cima alla genovese, also known as la cima ripiena (“stuffed cima”), was, like trofie, created out of scarcity, utilizing parts that would have otherwise been thrown away. It originated as a peasant dish, and can be traced back to the 900s CE. In these times meat was a luxury, and this dish does its best to make use of traditionally discarded parts of the cow. The outer “shell” or layer of cima is a calf's stomach, cut and sewn to form a pocket. It is stuffed with sweetbreads (white, spongy glands sourced from different parts of the calf), brains, testicles, udders and fragments of back, all of the finely chopped. Also added are eggs, garlic, dried mushrooms, butter, pine nuts, parmigiano reggiano, marjoram, green peas, and spices (nutmeg and garlic). Nowadays some people opt to replace the testicles and back with pork. As with many other Ligurian specialties, marjoram is the key ingredient, giving this delicate, difficult-to-prepare dish its signature flavor. The stuffed cima is wrapped in a linen cloth, and then submerged in a pot of vegetable broth, where it is boiled. If it is not sewn properly, and if careful attention is not paid to boiling the sewn-up cima, it may burst, ruining it. It is served cold, usually with pesto for spreading or dipping. By Kim Macron
Although polpettone typically means a meatloaf-like dish in many regions of Italy, in Liguria it refers to this vegetable casserole, formed from breadcrumbs, green beans and potatoes (passed through a ricer), with the addition of parmigiano reggiano, eggs, olive oil, garlic, salt, and herbs. Some versions of polpettone also include dried mushrooms. The key herb providing polpettone’s signature flavor is marjoram. It is an ancient dish, historically a peasant meal; in the Middle Ages it was called scarbassa, which was the name of the wicker baskets brought into the fields to collect vegetables during harvesting. The Genovese also called it “Sčiattamàiu,” which literally means “husband-bursting” (“sciatta marito”). What this refers to unclear, although it may be a joking reference to indigestion caused by the heavy, garlicky dish. The modern polpettone starts with a thin bottom layer of breadcrumbs, which is then topped with a mixture of a mash of potatoes and green beans (both boiled prior to ricing/mashing), sauteed garlic, marjoram and parsley. Once these sauteed spices cool, they are added to eggs and grated cheese and well mixed. These are then added to the potato and green bean mash, layered on top of the breadcrumbs, with the top sprinkled with more breadcrumbs and coated with olive oil. A fork is run across the top to make small, shallow valleys for the oil, and it is baked until the top is crispy. It can be eaten hot, at room temperature, or cold, and is even better the next day, after the flavors have melded. The top and bottom are crunchy, while the inside is soft and starchy, incredibly delicious for such a simple dish. By Kim Macron
Farinata (fainà in Genovese) is a flat cake or flatbread made of chickpea flour, water, extra virgin olive oil, and salt. It is baked in large cast-iron skillets or large rectangular baking sheets in wood-burning ovens. Farinata should be crispy on the outside, soft inside, fairly thin (approx .5 cm), and quite salty. Farinata supposedly originated by accident; following a naval battle between Genovese and Pisan forces in 1284. After the battle a storm arose, damaging many of the Genovese ships, including the one containing the sailors’ provisions. Salvaging olive oil and chickpea from the sea, they found barrels of both had become waterlogged, resulting in a thin, mushy porridge. Some of this mush was left out on the ship's deck, and after drying in the sun formed a pancake-type of patty. Pleasantly surprised at its tastiness, the sailors jokingly named it “the gold of Pisa,” to celebrate their victory and their ingenuity in solving their food problem. Once back in Genova, the combination of these ingredients was revisited and some adjustments were made to the ratio of salt, water, chickpea (ceci) flour, and oil, and instead of sun-drying the dish, it was baked in a wood-burning oven. The name farinata means “floured.” There are versions of this dish in other regions. In Pisa, it is called cecina; in Piedmont (specifically in the city of Alessandria): belécauda; in Sardegna: fainé (typically topped with onions, anchovies, and sausage); and Nice, France: socca. 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. 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. |
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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