The Big Mac Index

Unless I am forced to do so by strange circumstances I strenuously avoid eating at McDonalds. Maybe everyone says this now? Sometimes I get into trouble by being too graphic about things I do not like to eat, especially when others really do, so I will leave it at that. In any case, having been an adolescent stockholder of MCD, this makes me feel slightly guilty and vaguely anti-American. Growing up in the shadow of corporate headquarters, though, it was somehow easier to support its plan for world domination, knowing it was at least benefitting neighbors and communities nearby. (Okay, and me.) All this to say, it makes good sense to me to use the Big Mac to evaluate currencies relative to the dollar. Despite never having had Big Macs in Europe, I'm pretty this also correctly indexes the horror we felt when the bill arrived in these various countries.

The Big Mac index compliments of The Economist

At home in Stockholm

Cardamom makes me happy.

Bio-Dinkelpops

Since Seidl Confiserie did such a nice job with the banana leaves and everything, I won't even bother with my own shot.

PS: In honor of Swiss Labor Day, I'm taking the rest of the day off. Happy May Day!

Today I bought cereal called BioDinkelpops! 

American flair and the possibilities of white bread

CHÂTEAUROUX, France - In the 1960s a local entrepreneur, Paul Picard, the owner of a baked goods business, was impressed by the strange square white bread that the American servicemen ate [on the nearby army base]. Like other Frenchmen accustomed to long, crusty baguettes, Mr. Picard had never seen anything like it, yet he thought it offered possibilities.

So he visited bakeries in the United States to learn how it was baked, then returned to France where he essentially re-engineered Wonder Bread. To give it an American flair, he called it Harry’s American Bread and decorated the packaging with the stars and stripes of the American flag. No one can say who Harry was, probably just a name that sounded American.

Though the base closed too soon for Mr. Picard to sell his bread there, it soon became a hit with the French. Now Harry’s huge baking plant outside Châteauroux bakes about 130 million loaves of white bread and other bakery products a year. That is about one-third of what Harry’s produces at other plants scattered across France. Its six bakeries spread across France make it the largest producer of packaged baked goods in the country.

Excerpted from After 43 Years, a French Town’s Nostalgia for Harry and Joe Lingers (NY Times)

Some helpful clues here as to how weird versions of American products come into existence in Europe. I am still uncertain, especially in this white bread case here, how such products maintain lasting popularity once the thrill of possibility has worn off. It must be related to the flair, because it certainly isn't the taste. This may be the key to the Obama fingers.

The Swiss, if you didn't know, like to know where their meat comes from. And I am not just saying this because I have a picture of a giant chicken painted with the Swiss flag. The origins of all meat, no matter where you may find it, are carefully reported with a list at the back of the menu, a note to the side, or a sticker on the package. Perhaps this is even required by law, I do not know.

They're not quite as melodramatic as the "Made in the USA" labels, which have the ability to make one feel patriotic in the check-out line, but they get the job done. The Swiss like to buy Swiss, whether on principle or just because they like "Swiss quality." I find it convenient because it's usually code for "expensive."

Happy Friday!

In Sardinia they eat a special cheese called Casu Marzu. Its distinctive flavor (and texture, I'm guessing) comes compliments of the maggots which are allowed (nay, encouraged) to breed there. Unfortunately the cheese is seasonal, so we didn't have the opportunity to not eat it while in Sardinia last year. And I think it might be banned on the mainland.

I'd never seen a picture of it, so I just looked it up. Looks innocuous enough....

If you know your Latin roots (or a romance language) (oh, or English), you know why I had a moment of panic in the grocery store recently. I was dubious of finding this sausage in a Western country, but its position in the meat section (see below) and a quick check of the word "felino" in my pocket dictionary made me doubt my sure doubt. 

I inspected the ingredient list of the Salame Felino carefully, though, and there was no sign of feline components. Had I the internet on hand, I would have learned immediately that Felino is a city in Emilia-Romagna near Parma, and saved myself a few moments of concern. (I also would have realized this if they had included a di on the label between Salame and Felino, but perhaps that is too loquacious for the deli section.) Salame di Felino, it turns out, is a soft and delicately-flavored sausage, made of pork, fat, pepper, and a bit of pepper and garlic dissolved in white wine, which is added right before encasing. "Gatticus" and I are feeling much better about this.

The cute connection

The double-A battery has a special name in France: mignon. I think it's really cute that they have a nickname for a battery type. I'm trying to think if we do something so charming in English. I can't think of much (Bring me that lil' batt'ry, you big git!), but maybe I am just blind to the cuteness of my own language. I do wish we had a more flexible diminutive ending in our language, like Spanish does. Pilita (or would it be pilacita?) sounds pretty cute. Even German, when it's not saying things like "small-stored-energy-capsule," has a nice diminutive ending which can be put, at least by old ladies, on practically anything.

Anyway, because, up to the point of learning this, mignon suggested to me something along the lines of "hunk of meat," I decided to research this mysterious battery-meat connection. I was pleased to find mignon to mean "cute, sweet, nice, kind." Or, in the context of meat, apparently, "dainty." A relative term, obviously, since beef is one of the less dainty foods I can think of at the moment. To confuse the issue further, in France filet mignon usually refers to pork. Filet of beef is called tournedos.

So now you know all about mignon and can impress people next time you're out ordering meat at some tony steakhouse, or asking your French friend for a battery. Just remember to pronounce it correctly or you'll lose all your credibility. 

Chew first, think later

When sampling foods which challenge your notions of edibility, it is best not to tarry before the plate. Smelling, scrutinizing, asking questions, and thinking in general may impress your host but will lower the probability you will actually eat the food, by allowing time for that reactive part of your brain, which is completely impervious to the powers of reason, etiquette, and nostalgia, to resolutely lower its leaden foot and forbid you from continuing. Likewise, when ordering such foods off a menu, it is best not to over-translate, obsess over wines and sides, or surveil other tables. 

The degree to which you will enjoy such foods at least to some degree will depend on your ability to dissociate from your preconceived notions, past experiences of texture and flavor, and tendency to think in analogy. All the better if you can will complete ignorance. 

Italy is not generally known for its challenging comestibles, but, from my perspective, it has its share. This is mostly because, despite well-intentioned efforts, I have not yet been able to accept the idea of internal organs as food. Boar meat, yes, baby horse, yes, cured fat even, yes. Brains, no. Livers and kidneys, no. Come on, they used to do something. 

This stance makes all the more interesting, then, my enthusiasm for trying that Florentine speciality called trippa. I felt curiously open to it from the beginning, initially perhaps because the term gracefully obscures its primary functionality as part of a living creature. And, since our tripe exchange went something like –

"Tripe, isn't that...?" 

"Yes, it is." 

"Oh, okay."

– I was just a short brain pause and a deep breath away from ordering the tripe ravioli I spied on the menu at a local tripperia outside Florence a few weeks ago. I was rewarded by a smile of recognition from the server and by the brief, satisfying sensation that I was having an authentic experience.

I will say for it that, unlike many other questionably edible foods, it actually started out tastily enough. It was only with the arrival of another, whole tripe dish at the table that the idea of the tripe became clear, the texture of the tripe sauce became evident, the flavor registered (stomach entering stomach, chewy/cartilage-y, and smokily cutaneous, respectively, if you care to know) and my eating slowed. Though I finished it all, in the end I can't say I've been won over to internal organs. But I can say that I ate tripe in the same restaurant as John Malkovich.

Bacche di ginepro

In the spice section the other day, I impulsively picked up a bottle of dried berries, which, my dictionary later informed me, were juniper berries.

They pretty much taste like vodka minus the vodka. They are assertive, but reticently so, like they are not used to being alone on the palate and would anyway prefer to stay tucked away in the woods by themselves with the deer. They are definitely closer to fruity twigs than blueberries: not really something that you put on your cereal.

What in the world shall I do with these berries? I hope someone will help me.

All this talk of dairy products reminds me of this Sesame Street bit which, like dairy products, has a special place in my heart.

Festa della piazza

How many Swiss guys does it take to hang a salami in the tree?

In honor of the Nürnberger

By now you're all thinking I'm the biggest Germanophile in the world, but let me reassure you I am almost done rhapsodizing about Germany (in fact my "Swiss Ms. und Deutschland" wall is almost complete). I will go back to all things Swiss soon enough.

But first I must tell you, in case you have not heard, about a special sausage called the Nürnberger. My first encounter with Nürnberger wurste was in college at the Kristkindl Markt in Nürnberg. I'm still surprised that I even ordered any, meat-suspicious as I was at that time. But I did and and it was, as they say, a revelation. It is a perfectly balanced sandwich – small sausages lined up neatly with just enough crusty roll (though sometimes the ends stick out and you have to eat them first) – and perfectly portable. Add a bit of mustard and you have a gateway sandwich that may have you eating Weißwurst a few years down the road, in spite of carefully-held convictions.

It is a tribute to their tastiness that even the vacuum-packed shelf version for tourists that I brought home with me, which looked like astronaut food when we opened it, tasted good.


And, happily, there is a legend attached to these small sausages. Who could tell it better than the box?: Legend has it the the Nürnberger is so small simply because in this way, it could still be sold after the beginning of the curfew hour – through the keyholes of restaurants. Today the sausage makes its own laws and is under the EU's regional protection of origin. Made only following a strict recipe, with ingredients of the best quality and from the Nürnberg metropolitan region, the Nürnberger Rostbratwurst have earned the distinction "Original"!  All good as long as the sausage keep its laws off my body!

My pudding's cooked!

It seemed like a risk to use UHT milk for the banana pudding I made yesterday. While I don't have the shelf complex that other Americans do, I just could never adjust to its taste. (And believe me, I forced down many a glass while living in Spain.) Don't they always say never to cook with a wine you wouldn't drink? I know someone influential said that because I feel guilty every time I buy cheap wine for cooking. Anyway, I felt brave as I poured out two cups into the mixing bowl, no tasting.

Now, UHT milk ("shelf milk") has a lot of things going for it. It is cheap, long-lasting, and packaged in Tetra Pak (thereby both stackable and absurdly appealing to me). I had been eyeing it on the shelf there, wishing I didn't think it tasted so weird, for a long time. In the end, it was the good old dollar that worked its magic on my hard heart and convinced me to give it another try.

The moment of truth came even before the pudding was cooked, as there was just enough leftover milk left for a taste. And – I am trying desperately to think of a way to make this more dramatic but am coming up empty – it tasted good. I liked it. Whether it was the result of maturing tastebuds or advanced processing or the Swiss milk or simple necessity I suppose I will never know. What I do know is that milk now costs less than gas.

So the lesson (since I can't seem to help forming a formal conclusion for you) is: eat some things you don't like every once in a while and you might be pleasantly surprised.

Il mio primo compleanno svizzero

I now return after a little break for the visit of Orangina and Kraftman (a fine summary of events available here).  There were so many lovely moments during their trip, it would be difficult to pick a favorite. But ranking high among them would be the enthusiastic round of "Happy Birthday" which accompanied this thoughtfully appointed cake.

What can even be said of such a magnificent birthday cake? Only that it would not be possible without a dear, thoughtful mother, a couple of goofy friends, and a husband with a penchant for growing facial hair in very special styles.  And thanks to its fiber wheels, the cake practically digested itself. 

The globalization of "the people's sausage"

In what will no doubt further prove my so-called "strange relationship with cased meats," I must share some disturbing news: Cervelas, the national sausage of Switzerland, is on the brink of demise.

How could this happen to such a dear, dear meat at such an inopportune time? Hadn't they taken out the brains out of the recipe long ago? Hadn't it fed the urban proletariate for generations? Hadn't it been for the nation everything a sausage should?  Yes, yes, of course. 

So how did this sausage end up on the endangered species list? The answer to this question is the answer to so many others: globalization. A few years ago, when the Swiss finally got tired of cleaning out cow intestines, they switched to zebu intestine so the Brazilians could do it for them. (The zebu, I can save you a few moments' searching on Wikipedia, is a big old water buffalo-like animal with a hump, found in warm climates with, apparently, strong intestines.) 

Surely the Swiss Sausage Board wouldn't have made this decision, had they known of its tragic implications, that these very intestines would end up on the EU's list of banned animal parts and put cervelas on death row just a few years later. No doubt they are retracing their steps, wondering if they are to blame, if they missed the warning signs, what else they could have done. Will they will be held responsible for the downfall of a national tradition? Only time will tell.

In the meantime, cervelas rests uneasily on the (figurative) chopping block, as the diplomats debate zebu importation and the Sausage Board seeks alternative casing options. Will this proud sausage become another unintended victim of globalization or will some sort of compromise be made? I'll keep you posted if they come to a conclusion or should Noam Chomsky weigh in at some point.

Full article for the curious.

Is it raw or are we just paranoid?

In a nice bit of groupthink at a market in Bellinzona this weekend, Frau B., Swiss Mr., and I decided to purchase some goat sausage. Actually, we decided to purchase sausage which turned out to be goat, so the goat really didn't play into the decision at all. Our camera is still kaput so you'll have to imagine the long strings of sausages hanging in the stand which worked their old world charm on us.

The first bite revealed that this grandpa of a sausage was not at all what it seemed. Its contents were a lively pink. Its consistency was softish. It smelled young. And it tasted a little fresh. We found this apparent rawness confusing. How could this rustic old meat be unfinished? We stood alone in a medieval courtyard contemplating this importunate question and many others such as: If it was raw, how would one cook it? What would that bit in my stomach do later in the day? Could the color possibly be just from the curing?

These questions went unanswered and the sausages went forgotten in my bag for the rest of the day as we went off to explore castles and get lost on a long and winding road flanked by goats and the meanest dogs in existence. But now that they are at the forefront of my refrigerator and my mind, I am again seeking answers about these slender sausages. I am hoping a knowledgeable sausage fairy will visit my blog to tell me how I can eat the rest of these. Or that there is some Muenchener or Midwesterner out there with sausage savvy who has some advice. To assist, here is a computer-shot of said sausages:

Exhibit A: A rare find?

Pastabilities

Okay, there is no Swiss anecdote, adventure, or nugget of information here. Since hearing the word recently, I just wanted to think about it some more, as I think "Pastabilities" is a truly brilliant combination of things that people truly love: pasta and choice. I also thought it would be interesting to imagine together how horrified Italians would be at the idea of mixing pastas and sauces so haphazardly. But mostly I just want to think about it some more because it makes me nostalgic for my college days.

At my dear college, and perhaps every college, there was a rumor that the cafeteria employed ex-convicts from the local prison. But no matter, we all loved our tattooed friends in the checkered pants the way we loved everything about our little college and its odd little culture. We embraced them – even the crazy one at the entrance zealously enforcing the "one piece of fruit" rule – learned their names, happily spotted them off campus, wrote them comment cards.... And on "Pastabilities" night, when the carbohydrate-enhanced euphoria was at its highest, all seemed right with the world.

Do I need to explain what "Pastabilities" night is? Maybe I still have that one Italian reader who can weigh in on the subject. It would be impastable to imagine on your own the sublimity of "Pastabilities" night, so I will explain. Imagine every kind of affordable pasta (tri-color fusilli, penne, farfalle), not one, not two, but THREE sauces, and a wide array of impeccably chopped fresh vegetables. Choose any combination of pasta, sauce, and vegetables and watch it cooked right before your eyes. It's the closest a college student will come to having a personal chef.

I have forgotten the most important part, which was the mysterious garlic oil used in startling proportion to sauté the vegetables, add extra flavor, and in general keep everything from sticking to anything else. If I could just get some of that magic oil sauce, I just know my cooking complex would disappear.

The "Pastabilities" line was unbearably long; I only rarely had the stomach for it. But still, I looked forward to the enthusiasm, the pure joy, brought to the cafeteria on that night. We were united together in our love of choice, our longing for control, our desire for the breadsticks available exclusively to those in the "Pastabilities" line.... Who cannot love this fusion of food and freedom into a meal event?