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glassrootstour-blog · 10 years

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American Food for our Fortunate Bellies

Another gust of arctic wind shivered my fingers, so I lowered my book and thought instead about how Izzy and I have changed over the course of this tour. We sat on little folding chairs half a block down from the entrance to Franklin Barbecue in Austin, Texas. It was 9:45 AM, and we bitterly regretted sending our winter coats home in Savannah.

the line at Franklin Barbecue has its own twitter post everyday.

Above is the post from our day in line...

I had plenty of time to reflect on how we have changed: we have become milk from Oregon, Aspen sprouts from Wyoming, genetically-modified corn from Iowa, plankton from the Gulf of Mexico, I thought, and soon grass from the plains of Montana. Yes, we are humans, “featherless bipeds” with opposable thumbs, warm blood, and no hooves, but on a metaphorical and a molecular level, our bodies are a collage of North American flora and fauna. We’ve been listening to Michael Pollan’s “Omnivore’s Dilemma” audiobook, and have learned that the carbon molecules of our bodies have various isotopes that can be traced back to the original plant that absorbed the CO2 from the atmosphere with the help of sunlight.

Don’t worry, the science will be over soon. In sum, we physically are what we eat. And mentally, our moods and ideas depend partly on our stomach (the “second brain,” which manufactures 90% of the serotonin in our bodies) and on our taste buds, smells, conversations and good memories. If our moods and ideas have been good on this tour, it’s because we have the incredible luck of enjoying delicious food at each stop. And since I have been planning to write a blog about our food experiences (here it is), eating well has been part of our jobs (good idea, me).

Our cuisine adventure began humbly: lunch #1 was melted-cheesy burritos at a neon-lit, plastic menu Mexican place in Enumclaw, Washington. The meal’s chief virtue was its high calorie/dollar ratio, which helped us when we camped that evening beneath Mt. Rainier and subsisted on lentils and kind bars.

The feasts began when we reached Portland the next day. Our hosts owned an entire book about the food trucks in Portland, which offered everything from grilled cheeses with peanut butter to ice cream-filled crepes. We ate impeccable Thai food in a repurposed rickshaw, adventurous new American in a converted ballroom, enormous veggie burritos, and ate at three different restaurants with a butcher’s diagram of a pig on the wall.

It was in one of these pork-adorned places that Izzy and I enjoyed the most decadent meal of our young lives. We arrived at Beast for the 8:45 seating to watch super-chef Naomi Pomeroy and her crew cook a six-course prix fixe dinner that would change our lives. We were there, ostensibly, because Naomi started Beast as a single mother, like my mom when she started glassybaby. She was too busy for an interview, though she admired for a moment the glassybaby that we brought as a tribute. Then she brought out a procession of delicacies: zucchini soup with cheesy toast, incredible charcuterie, and braised duck confit made us close our eyes and revel in sensations we had never imagined. We finished the last glass of course-paired wine around midnight, not too full, but deeply sated in a way that only a three-hour, candle-lit, open-kitchen-chef-watching feast can sate.

After Portland, our dinners came back down to Earth, as we ascended the high west to Jackson Hole. I had burgers made from Bison and Elk - I find the former better than beef. I felt some remorse about eating these animals because of their nobility, but upon reflection, no - their lives were probably much richer than those of most cows that I have eaten, and their diet consisted of the wild plants that Native Americans traditionally regard as medicine, and so they might make me healthier, too. I felt the tourist’s urge, as well: when in Rome, do as Romans do; when in Wyoming, eat the local game.

We got a huge bag of produce for cheap at a farmers market in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and cooked it into a big ol' stew at a KOA in Nebraska that evening.

Izzy and I have retained this attitude along our journey. We want to eat the local delicacies in each spot. This strategy did not serve us in Detroit: we tried one of the favorite “Coney Island” eateries that serve massive, cheap chili dogs, and felt less than great. (Note: we did have some excellent pizza in Detroit’s Eastern Market, and Slow’s Bar BQ wasn’t half bad.) In Williamstown, we had a picnic lunch on Berkshire-fresh cheese, bread, and apples. In Rhode Island we slurped oysters and dissected clams.

picking apples in Williamstown

New York City is a universe unto itself in most ways, including its food. Perhaps a city’s standards of food quality rise proportionately to the collected height of its skyscrapers; such a proportion seems right in New York. In Detroit we had found a burrito place, average Yelp rating of 5 stars, that was barely adequate. In New York, we ate the greatest falafel sandwiches of our lives at Taim, which garnered just 4.5 stars. Marea, the world-renowned and ritzy Italian seafood restaurant with glassybaby on the table, also received 4.5 stars. And Bleeker Street Pizza, where I had an impeccable, cheap, thin-crisp crust, hot-fresh mushroom slice beneath a wall of signed celebrity endorsements? 3.9 stars on Yelp. It seems as though the best is barely good enough in New York City — but it was certainly good enough for Izzy and me.

South of New York, we refocused on regional delicacies. Our first meal in the south was at the fast food fried chicken chain Bojangles off I-95, which set a pretty low bar for fried chicken, but only cost $9.50 for both of us. The next evening, we dined at the Sweet Potatoes Kitchen in Savannah, where the fried chicken was hot, tender and crispy. The sign out front boasted “the world’s best” banana pudding, according to Man Vs. Food. So we had to try it - and it was the most wonderful pudding, banana or otherwise, ever.

The southern delectability continued with deep-fried alligator tail nuggets, shrimp and grits, and pulled pork sandwiches. I think I have gained a few pounds in these lower latitudes, and I don’t regret it one bite.

Deep-fried gator tail

We walked through the Garden District in New Orleans, over the sidewalks split and heaved by the roots of the live oak trees that twisted and leaned their shade above us, past the fully-booked Commander’s Palace restaurant and the old Lafayette Cemetery to Magazine Street. We lucked into a table at Coquette, where a 3-course brunch of sausage gumbo, scrambled eggs, and chocolate mousse defeated us. We had to watch a movie in bed before we ventured back out to explore the French Quarter. It was there, past the jazz bands blowing on each corner and the voodoo magic palm readers in Jackson Square, where we discovered Cafe du Monde. We took a seat, and a waitress with a white paper hat took our order: two coffees and an order of three beignets. In two minutes they arrived: deep-fried fluffy dough pieces beneath lake-effect snowbanks of powdered sugar. We struggled to handle the sugar and spilled the white powder on our jeans trying to get it to our mouths. Just then a cop walked by, and struck me with a flash of insight. I picked up a beignet and tapped off the excess sugar. I dipped it slowly, carefully in my coffee, and then dabbed it on the sugar, which dissolved and stuck on to the saturated pastry. Wow. I believe I have discovered the perfect way to enjoy a beignet. My words can only fail to do this alchemy justice. Go to New Orleans at the next chance you get, dip your beignet in coffee, then dab it in the sugar and give me a call, so we can laugh speechlessly and joyfully together.

Remember: dip and dab

New Orleans gave us two more revelations of cuisine. Next to a sidewalk damaged not by old oaks but by the Katrina floods, we ordered enormous styrofoam jugs of steaming seafood gumbo at a combination Cajun, Chinese food, and liquor store called Cajun Seafood (4.9 stars on Yelp, with this comment: “all the best cajun places are in the hood”). It took us 40 blissful, silent minutes to work through the spice, heat, and entire crab which came in each gumbo.

On our last day in town, I ordered an Italian-American, New Orleans delicacy, a Muffuletta at upscale lunchery Cochon Butcher. Within a toasty, sesame seed roll lay cured turkey, pastrami, and cured pork belly, above some tangy pickled-peppers and beneath a fresh olive tapenade spread. I savored it slowly in 70-degree sunshine.

Mm-Mm-Muffuletta

That muffuletta was the second-best sandwich I have ever had - second only to the Carribean Roast at Paseo in Seattle (which recently closed… noooooo!).

After New Orleans came Texas. Austin has the only food truck scene that rivals Portland that of Portland (Boston coming in a distant third). Breakfast and giant donuts were had. The masterpiece of Austin restaurants, though, traded in its food-truck origins for a brick-and-mortar location a few blocks east of I-35. A bean-shaped baby-blue sign heralds the #1-ranked barbecue in the world: Franklin Barbecue, with its line extending down the block.

In line at franklin BBQ on a chilly morning

All the mental reflection recorded above passed some time: it was now 11 AM and still cold in the shade. The front doors opened. The line began to shuffle, maybe six inches per minute, toward the entrance on the corner. By noon we were at the door, nearly two and a half hours after arriving. And this was on a Wednesday, the shortest line of the week. Finally, we were in. And now our troubles really began. The line snaked around the edge of the restaurant to the counter where they chopped and weighed each order, skirting around the table section where excited people dug into their well-earned bounty. The stomach rumbles began quickly, once we had to look at and smell the meat all around us. I distracted myself reading articles pinned upon the wall about owner/pit master Aaron Franklin’s rise to Barbecue glory.

At 12:45, we were finally ordering. Half a pound of brisket, two bones of ribs, and one sausage, as well as potato salad, pinto beans and coleslaw. It came on brown wax paper on a blue tray: dripping juice and steaming flavor.

American Feast

We didn’t waste time. The sausage had a crisp skin but a juicy, tender inside, and the rib meat fell off the bone with no need for sauce. I’ve never had better sausage or ribs. I must agree, though, with the Texas proclamation that “brisket is king.” Brisket is a tough meat to cook. It comes from the muscles between a cow’s front legs, which has two sections, one lean and one fatty, and so requires a long period of close attention and love to cook well. It’s the highest risk, highest-reward cut of beef. Franklin Barbecue sources pasture-raised cows from Montana, takes the brisket, and smokes it above an oak fire for about nine hours before they open and serve, delivering perfection every day. And thus Franklin Barbecue brisket is the king of meat. No steak, chop, filet, burger, or roast comes close. The flavor sang through my whole body while I chewed its marbled tenderness with ease. My paltry description ends here, out of respect for the simple, marvelous fact that is Franklin Barbecue brisket, the king of American food.

#franklinbarbecue #austin #atx #food #delicious #america #new orleans #new york #beast pdx #beast #muffuletta #bbq #glassrootstour

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