Last Thing I Ate: Burek

Karry Lu  

Slovenia…shit. I’m still only in Slovenia. Every time I close my eyes, try to catch a bit of shuteye, I’m still in the forest, the endless forest. It was very pretty when I first got on the 6am to Budapest, when the sun was first starting to break over the trees. I remember thinking that Ljubljana Railway Station was the nicest, most modern one I’d seen since I landed on the continent, German-engineered steel beasts with their sleek, silver lines humming along high-speed rails (Deutsche Bahn is somehow involved with Slovenia’s train system). But it’s still 500 kilometers to the end of the road.

I spent around a total of 30 days in the Balkans, and for about 25 of them I ate burek, sometimes twice a day. Of originally Ottoman extraction, burek is essentially a flaky handheld pastry made with phyllo dough and some kind of savory filling. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes and could easily be mistaken for some of the more familiar “meat-wrapped-in-carbs” foodstuffs enjoyed by Americans on a regular basis: croissants, knishes, pierogis, 3am taquitos from 7-11. In a land of unfamiliar histories and impenetrable Cyrillic script, burek is extremely comforting for the averaged cosseted Westerner.

The first time I had burek was in Sarajevo. In second grade I used to play this weird Risk-like game using our geography workbooks, with this kid named Tommy Schnurr; coincidentally the Yugoslav Wars (i.e. the Siege of Sarajevo, the Srebrenica massacre) were raging at the very moment two dumb schoolkids were blithely moving imaginary armies across the face of war-torn Central Europe to commit imaginary atrocities. Almost two decades later, I suppose you could say I was back among my former stomping grounds. In an effort to hide my gaping ignorance, I had read most of the Wikipedia entries on the subject during the short ride into town from Croatia. But obviously, the first thing I did was duck into a bakery and look for something greasy and salty to fill my maw.

“You should get that,” a man loitering by the counter said, in perfect, Midwestern English.

“What’s that?”

“It’s good. Burek. That one has potato in it,” he replied, pointing at a seemingly arbitrary tray of specimens. “I teach English here. Everyone eats this stuff.”

It’s hard to go wrong with anything involving spiced potatoes, and this one was particularly satisfying in the way that unhealthy, heavily seasoned street food typically is. Eventually I would try feta cheese and spinach (marginally better for you), unidentified ground meat (lamb, I think), apple (a step above McDonald’s apple pies), and even sour cherry burek fillings (actually really good), but I think potato is still my favorite. Different countries, primarily around the Balkans, have their own preferences, but the common theme is that burek is sold everywhere, in a manner that rivals the way that pizza and bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches are sold in New York. At every hour, at any time, perfect for those leisurely walks through twisting alleys and hawker bazaars, in dingy apartments camped around a bottle of homemade rakia, before or during train journeys snaking across the Balkans.

On the train from Sarajevo to Zagreb I had spent my last remaining konvertible marks on train station burek and shots of dark Turkish coffee at the nearby cafe. Old Bosniaks sitting next to open windows and “No Smoking” signs quietly inhaled unfiltered knockoff Camels in between scanning their newspapers and sneaking bemused looks at the random Asian kid with the lime green board shorts. A few meters from my seat, tacked prominently on the wall, was a plaque that read, “Gift from the Swedish Government, 1972.”

Outside the world seemed condensed, untouched. Verdant valleys followed winding rivers and mountain tracks as we plunged into the bush. Every so often the train compartment would descend into darkness as we hit one of the tunnels scattered throughout the Bosnian countryside, the ones that the Serbs used to occupy during the war. No one spoke. The three spinach and cheese bureks I had bought earlier went quickly, only to be washed down by a few helpings of warm Sarajevsko beer.

About a week later, the RailJet I took from Ljubljana to Budapest happened to cross some of the more heat-wavey stretches of Central Europe. Once we emerged from the woodlands, the temperatures spiked. I walked into the aisle and stuck my head out the window for several minutes at a time, canine-style, in a desperate grasp at relief from the sweltering temperatures. Acres of nondescript, yellowed grassland rushed by without much comment, punctuated every so often by an isolated barn or cottage or nameless, sad-looking rail station. Bushes and small trees along the side of the tracks came perilously close to smacking me in the face. Somewhere between Maribor and Nagykanizsa, people started moving around the cars to ward off boredom and prevent heat stroke.

In order of appearance, here were the people I met and would never see again: the British teachers, the Norwegian DJ, the Swedish mother/daughter duo, the shirtless French bros, the Hungarian clown/guy who worked at a non-profit. Down the hall, an unseen twenty-something Belgian girl recounted tales of all-night bar crawls and extended hostel stays to another group of bemused travelers. Peals of laughter echoed through the car. The Norwegian dude and I smirked to each other and killed half a bottle of vodka while eating various store-bought shortbreads.

There was a dining car on board, and we decided to go pay it a visit. Various sandwiches, soft drinks and alcoholic beverages were for sale. I switched to Lasko, a light yet slightly bitter lager, to ease me into Budapest.

“So where are you headed afterwards?” I had forgotten his name already.

“I’m visiting a friend in Budapest, then flying back to Trondheim,” he replied.

“Oh cool,” I nodded. “Back home, huh?”

He shrugged. “It was nice, having this break. I went to see my family in Turkey.”

“You’re Turkish?” He certainly seemed a bit browner than the average Norwegian.

“I was born in Ankara, but moved to Norway when I was very young.”

“Cool. Do you visit Turkey often?”

He frowned. “When I can. I travel a lot for work anyway. But I don’t get the chance to play very often in Turkey.” He swiftly polished off the rest of his sandwich. I checked my watch. 7pm, and the sun still stood strong over the horizon.

“I wish I had a burek right now,” he mused.

“For sure. Would really hit the spot,” I agreed.

“I love that stuff. You know burek came from Turkey originally? Unfortunately they don’t really have it in Norway.” He looked out the window and watched the land recede steadily before him.

When we pulled into Budapest station he gave me his business card, a simple, worn one with a MySpace and cool graphic design. I ran into the clown a few minutes later, and he helped me buy a city metro pass, before hauling his bags up and wandering off into the night.

The Past-a

Kaitlin Schuler  

Mostaccioli. Orecchiette. Cavatelli. Macaroni. Tortellini. All these words rhyme, of course. But more importantly, all are types of pasta noodles, one of the most popular foods around the world today.

Pasta remains a staple to the diet of college students and lazier people of all ages. Boil some water, drop the dried noodles in, and wait only a few minutes before you’ve got soft, delicious shapes to serve with whatever suits you—vegetables, sauces, or (my personal favorite) olive oil. Boxes of any shaped noodles come reasonably priced: a two-pack of Barilla Angel Hair pasta costs $2.56! Macaroni noodles are famous from their use in Kraft Mac and Cheese, or for the on-the-go college kid, Kraft Easy Mac.

Where did this food come from, though? We all know that pasta came from Italy, but that’s about as far as the average person can go into the history of pasta. Let’s take it a little further here, so we can all be better informed about the food that aids us in our laziness and our desire to make a decent meal without too much effort.

Pasta is traditionally associated with Italian food, but it is actually extremely difficult to trace the origins of pasta. It is likely that the Italian version of the noodles were influenced by Asian noodles, commonly thought to have been brought to Italy by Marco Polo in the 13th century. Asian noodles were made with a barley-like substance, however—different from the process the Italians developed.

What we will refer to as pasta is made from unleavened dough consisting of water or eggs and ground durum wheat (see the PBS website below). The durum is what sets pasta apart from other noodles; it helps pasta have a long shelf life when dried and makes it easy to cook with just water—two qualities all stereotypical Americans like to have in their food. The less time it takes to cook, the more time we can spend being productive and changing the world! (Or, watching the last five episodes of House of Cards while thinking about starting your paper due tomorrow…)

In what was his most important contribution to American history, Thomas Jefferson actually helped pasta gain popularity in the United States while he was serving as Minister to France, where he fell in love with macaroni. This could have been any shape of pasta at the time, but he returned with two cases of the pasta and sent for more from a friend in Naples when he ran out.

Pasta was made to be eaten fresh and soon after it was made, but Americans have grown accustomed to eating dried pastas that we’ve imported from Italy. In actuality, many of the pasta companies now have outposts in the United States. Barilla, for example, makes most of the pasta sold in the United States at a plant in Iowa, with a few exceptions of pastas made in and shipped from Italy.

Like most foods when they initially became popular in America, pasta could only be afforded by the upper class until the time of the Civil War. Today, pasta can be dressed up extravagantly with a slew of seasonings and sauces that can include fancy wine and expensive spices. It can also go casual with just cheese or olive oil poured on top. There is a type of pasta out there for every person, even the pickiest of toddlers or the friends with gluten allergies.

Pasta has remained fairly the same throughout history, but Italian immigrants made some changes when they brought the noodles to America. First, meatballs were created because meat was less expensive in America than in Italy. Americans also added large portions and the seasonings of garlic, oregano, and chili pepper flakes to the tradition of pasta.

So, whether you like your noodles plain and simple like me, or covered in meatballs and sauce, we’re brought together by these simple strips and shapes of delicious dough. Next time you eat your Easy Mac for the fifth meal in a row, make sure to remember the history behind it.

References: http://civilwartalk.com/threads/history-of-pasta-in-america.75951/
http://www.barilla.com/faq
http://www.pbs.org/food/the-history-kitchen/uncover--the-history-of-pasta/

Super Bowls, Seahawks, and ¡SALSA!

Zoe Bauer  

If you’re a Broncos fan, salsa dipping and chip munching may have been the highlight of your Sunday evening. But for all viewers, salsa is a necessary component of Super Bowl Sunday. Scooping it is fun, eating it is delicious; what more could you want from a Super Bowl snack?

Yet it’s that question that irritates culinary enthusiasts, who long for the “all American” sports snack to return to its roots as a meticulously prepared, traditional Mexican dish. Here in the States, there aren’t any guidelines for salsa. Even the ordinary tomato-based salsa at the supermarket comes in countless varieties: spicy or mild, sweet or savory, thick or thin, and chunky or finely chopped. Outside the realm of tomato-based salsas, there are also black bean, peach, mango, pineapple, and even olive oil variations of the dip. And, as the variety in salsa ingredients has increased, so has the diversity in salsa’s dipping partners, ranging from the typical corn tortilla chip to celery or even to fried chicken. But despite the impressive creativity of American salsa producers, salsa aficionados should understand the true origins of the dip before plummeting their chips into it.

In its classical form, salsa is a delicacy. It’s used to complement the rich flavor of dense meats, such as veal or chorizo, or to be drizzled over a dish that may lack flavor, like a simple taco or tortilla. The word delicacy is key; salsa is used in moderation. In other words, people raised in Mexico would be shocked at the American tendency to load chips with spoon-full amounts of salsa.

Additionally, Mexican salsas possess a depth of flavor that American-made salsas often fail to mimic. Traditionally, each salsa ingredient is added merely to highlight the brilliant flavor of chili peppers. First, the type of chili is chosen; if fresh, chefs typically choose from serrano, jalapeño, poblano or habanero, and if dried, they have their choice of guajillo, cascabel, ancho, morita or chipotle. Different chilies are often mixed together in one salsa, but fresh chilies are almost never combined with dried ones. Then, additional ingredients are selected to emphasize certain aspects of the chilies that were chosen. Whether it has a salty, sweet or acidic vibe, the finished product includes a minimal amount of ingredients and gives off an intense amount of heat.

The depth of the salsa’s flavor is developed in its preparation. Ingredients can be soaked in spices or oils before the dish is put together, or the entire blend can be stored for multiple days before serving so that each element has time to influence the others. Chefs also play with variations of heat usage while making salsa. The sauce can be made completely in raw form (salsa cruda), with no ingredients that have been heated during or after the ingredients are combined, or can be prepared by cooking certain elements, either together or one at a time (salsa cocida). Julia Moskin discusses the difference between raw and cooked salsas in her article “Rediscovering Salsa, the Soul of Mexico in a Bowl”. She describes how raw salsas are “explosive, setting off fireworks of heat and acid in each bite”

So maybe authentic salsa isn’t meant for mindless dunking while rooting for your favorite team—for that we have American made salsas— but for your next “Taco Tuesday,” try incorporating a more authentic salsa into your Mexican-influenced meal. Check the labels for very few ingredients and some of the chilies mentioned above to know that a salsa is authentic; or try making your own! I recommend this recipe; it’s a salsa cocida using jalapeño peppers!

I Don’t Always Drink Beer, But When I Do…

Zoe Bauer  

I can handle its foaminess, its stickiness, and even its smelliness, but the taste of beer is the reason I abstain from drinking it. I strongly dislike beer for its monotonous and bitter flavor, but more than that, I hate that I hate it. It’s tragic to attend the University of Michigan, an institution that undeniably has the best football tailgates in the country, and have to refrain from the social, carefree environment that beer creates for the students.

Beer, more than just an alcoholic beverage, is an activity. Instead of involving grimacing faces and extinguishing chasers, it breeds a “lets all be friends” type of attitude. People play games with beer, watch games while drinking it, talk about beer, talk while drinking it; the combinations are infinite. So, as last semester closed, I imagined begrudgingly the three beer-less football seasons that were still in store for me.

But my spirits were lifted when BuzzFeed introduced me to an entirely new role for this fermented drink. To my excitement, beer can be used as an ingredient in a variety of foods, sweet and savory, to enhance the dishes’ flavor and complexity. The BuzzFeed article presented 10 mouthwatering recipes that take the bitter, monotonous substance and transform it into soup bases, glazes, dips, and batters.

My favorite recipe calls for sautéing shallots and Brussels sprouts in a light beer and smoky bacon glaze to create a delicious and aromatic twist on a relatively bland vegetable.

A more conventional use of beer simply involves adding a bottle or so to a frying batter to create a thick gold coating on fish. Since beer is dense, the batter will encase the fish while keeping moisture in, so the fish won’t become dry or chewy.

After discovering the BuzzFeed article, further research led me to a plethora of beer-based recipes for all occasions. Turns out that including beer (of all kinds) is a simple and delicious solution for anyone trying to amp up a meal at an affordable cost.

But why does it work so well? Beer is becoming a popular flavor enhancer due to its relatively low alcohol content and its subtle flavor compared to cooking wines and liqueurs. The malty additive complements the ingredients it’s paired with, whether it’s adding a richer and deeper flavor to a sauce or glaze, or incorporating a clean, earthy taste to balance an overly sweet dish.

One small word of advice is to follow a recipe closely when it calls for a specific type of beer. Though it may be tempting to use whatever beer is already in the fridge, light and dark flavors often make a large difference in the end result of the dish. If the recipe doesn’t specify, it’s safe to assume that lighter beers work well with chicken, fish and dessert, while darker beers pair nicely with heavier meats like pork or lamb.

Next fall, while others are busy re-racking and keg standing, I’ll be hard at work filling my solo cup in preparation for a game-day dinner of Beer-Can Chicken and Hoppy Hush Puppies. Go Blue!