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.

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!

A New Addiction

Bianka Kristen  

We all know food is addicting. That bag of chocolate pretzels you just can’t stop eating. Those cheesy chips that turn your fingertips orange, but somehow your hand keeps on reaching into the bag. One after the other, you keep eating your delicious food until there’s none left. Afterwards, tears may form but you hold them back, mostly because you’re embarrassed that you finished your entire stash of food by yourself.

Lately, I’ve gained a new addiction: a nice warm cup of Rooibos tea.

Rooibos, which means Red Bush in Afrikaans, is a tea that is native to South Africa with a unique red color. With it’s sweet yet earthy taste, the tea has spread to cultures worldwide.

Though Rooibos has always been sitting in my cupboard, waiting for someone to drink it, I never truly appreciated all that it had to offer until I became sick. One night, when my sore throat was becoming a distraction from my all-important school work, I decided to make myself some of the tea that had been standing in my cupboard all semester. With steam rising from the cup, I squeezed in some honey. It not only soothed my sore throat, but it soothed my spirit, allowing me to relax—at least until my cup was empty.

Though tea in general has a reputation for helping with relaxation, I’ve found that Rooibos does even more. Rooibos has a wholesome quality overall, with health benefits that cannot be missed. As a caffeine-free drink, Rooibos also has many antioxidants, making it one of the “healthier” teas. It has even been known to help with allergies and asthma: perfect for the ever-changing Michigan weather.

To add to it’s list of amazing qualities, Rooibos is the tea of adaptation. One can drink Rooibos with a variety of added ingredients. In South Africa, milk is added to the tea, along with sugar to taste. Honey can be substituted, and many times it is. When drinking Rooibos without milk, sometimes a lemon is put in, to enhance the tea’s natural flavors.

Whichever way you drink Rooibos, you will not be disappointed. Pair it with a cookie or two, and soon it may become the same delicious addiction that it has for me.

(Don’t) Leave the Cooking to the Professionals

Mitchell Feldman  

Don’t use the fact that you live in a dorm where there is an infinite supply of prepared food as an excuse to abandon cooking. The dining halls provide us with plenty of ingredients to make our own yummy (or not so yummy) dishes. Here are some ideas of foods to prepare to keep your chef skills up to par. (*Many of these dishes can be made in the Markley dining hall at the make-your-own pizza station).

BLT Pizza - Fold over the edges of the pizza dough. Fill the dough with bacon, lettuce, tomato, and a light portion of mayonnaise. Bake.
   Rating: 11/10, according to the guy who made it.

Strawberry Pie - Take pizza dough and fill with the strawberry yogurt topping. Cut up another dough into strips and criss cross them over the pie. Bake.
   Rating: ?/10, as I am afraid of fruit and did not try it. It does look pretty though.

Cookie Pie - Mix chocolate chip cookies with milk or ice cream in a bowl. Fill a pizza dough with the mixture. It will look disgusting. Consider doing this in private. Then bake it.
   Rating: 3/10. It tastes like wet cookies.

Pizza Burrito - Cover a pizza dough with chicken, rice, cheese, sour cream, etc. Roll. Bake. Make sure to keep the dough very thin.
   Rating: 8/10. The dough actually works well as a tortilla.

Nachos - Put chips in a pan. Cover with cheese. Bake. Apply sour cream and salsa.
   Rating: 2/10. The cheese turned harder than you ever want cheese to be.

Calzone - Make a pizza. Roll it. Fold edges.
   Rating: 8/10. It tastes like pizza.

Pudding Pie - Mix together pudding and whipped cream. Fill with cocoa crispies and pieces of cookie. Bake a pizza dough alone, folding up edges. Fill the baked crust with the mixture. Refrigerate.
   Rating: 7/10. I thought it tasted good but no one would try it. Turns out pudding is scary.

Tricks

• When eating Greek food, take feta cheese from the salad bar
• To take ice cream on the go without a cone, put it in between two cookies. Maybe bring a napkin out too
• Mix ice cream and root beer to make a root beer float
• Actually, just mix all the desserts

What I Ate On My Summer Vacation: Kokoreç

Karry Lu  

At midnight they woke us up for border crossing; when it was my turn in line I paid for the visa with the 15 euro I had carefully stored between the pages of a Bosnian novel entitled “Love and Obstacles.” Back on the bus I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the weird angle my neck was bent at. When I woke up I was in Turkey; Turkey the gateway to Asia, straddler of the Black Sea. Turkey the mysterious, the last of the great empires broken in the last of the great wars. Miles of sun-parched wheat emerged against the half-stolen light of morning. A few scattered trees perched aloof and hazy on the horizon. I blinked, yawned, and fell back asleep.

In Istanbul, I ate a lot of kebabs, because that’s practically unavoidable, but I also ate a lot of kokoreç. Kokoreç while I dodged and weaved past impenetrable traffic in impenetrable humidity; kokoreç under the waning afternoon shadows of Besiktas Stadium; kokoreç washed down with a half-liter of Efes and the gentle lapping of the Bosphorus. I ate some other things too, tantuni and midye dolma and even had some Shake Shack on Istiklal Road, past the Urban Outfitters and a McCafe where the hip local kids lined up for soft-serve ice cream at 2 AM and to freeload wi-fi and to be seen and heard.

When I was in Vienna I met a Turkish lawyer who told me to eat kokoreç, and because I crave hipster bragging rights, I had to track it down. After a bit of the typical confused-foreigner routine, I eventually found a stall that sold something that looked like what I found on Google image search: a long, glistening log of fat.

Which is not too far from the truth. Kokoreç is offal (hearts, lungs and kidneys) wrapped in lamb or goat intestines and then slowly roasted on a rotisserie. When it’s turning on the spit it looks vaguely like a giant sausage, wrapped tightly in twine and smoked lightly with off-brand Turkish cigarettes. When you order, the guy slices off a round, minces it, seasons with oregano and red chili pepper, and serves it in a half-baguette. Might set you back $3. Istanbul has no shortage of meats stuffed inside or served on top of a payload of carbs, but kokoreç is a standout, partly because it’s endemic to this part of the world, something that hasn’t yet been packaged and sold by the Western gaze. I imagine it’s the culinary equivalent of the classic foreign romance: unexpected, fiery, slightly questionable and liable to leave a tingling numbness in your mouth. The first taste is always a revelation; supremely savory but with proper heat, the chewy spring of the intestine countered by the comforting softness of the bread. Sometimes they’ll add chopped tomatoes and bell peppers for a hit of lightness. Sometimes you’ve just gotta man up and chow down some tripe-wrapped thymus. You can ask for a squeeze of lemon juice. I remember the first time, that texture, the smell wafting from the charcoal grill and the warm juice running between my fingers, motorbikes honking and roaring straight past the wide-eyed Chinese tourists in visors snapping pictures of Suleymaniye Mosque in the distance. Later on, in the afternoons when I sipped black tea in outdoor cafes and read longform journalism about teenage bullying on my Android because I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I thought about eating more kokoreç. Getting a beer, and maybe some kokoreç. I remember the last time, on my last night, at the end of another winding alleyway choked with exhaust and vapors from sweating humans and panting dogs, a couple of old Turks with graying mustaches and dusty brows running a stand next to a bus stop. Afterwards I sat along the river, chewing slowly with every bite burning away into nothing, observing the lights of Kadikoy, shutting off and going dark in this sprawling, unperturbed city. At the airport I spent my last few lira on local anise liquor and crepes, which weren’t great. When I passed through security there was a group of British kids arriving with their suitcases in tow, wheels rattling over the automated walkway. In town for holiday, for a lark, to find themselves in others, their lilting voices echoing far away as they fired up their Instagram feeds. Outside, the temperature dipped, and the moon hung low over Istanbul.

An Ode to Organ Meat

Stephen Tryban  

One of the most enjoyable and satisfying experiences I had on my family trip to Italy was my first sampling of tripe. Tripe, for those who don't know, is the edible stomach tissue of an animal. While we were in a small trattoria nestled in the mountains of the central provinces, our family friends overheard my desire to try the organ meat (why I wanted to in the first place still escapes me), and ordered me a dish of "trippa alla romagna.” Laid out in front of me was one of the strangest animal products I'd ever seen bathed in a rich tomato sauce which offered a wondrous aroma. It ended up being my favorite dish on that trip, so much so that I ordered it again during our stay in Florence.

Now, years later, I find myself in a culinary climate that, more or less, rejects organ meats. Such cuts were sparse on Italian menus, but seem to be non-existent on the menus of even some of the most exotic restaurants in the United States. What I find especially concerning is the lack of tripe. Just how could such a delicious food find itself only on the metaphorical chopping block?

Admittedly there are a number of factors that work against it. As mentioned before, tripe is essentially the edible part of an animal’s stomach. This fact alone is already a red flag for many who see eating tripe as downright unhygienic. Most tripe, however, is "dressed": boiled and bleached, usually by an experienced butcher or professional "tripe dresser". Nonetheless, even the faintest idea of the possible remaining stomach contents can churn one's own stomach. Its appearance is bizarre, sometimes sporting a honeycomb like pattern, while other times it sprouts feathery-like extensions. For good measure, the word "tripe" itself has become synonymous for garbage or crap.

With that said, what does tripe actually have to offer? For one thing one would find that tripe, like most sweetbreads (another, albeit confusing, name for organ meats in the culinary world), is not in high demand, and as such, one could probably barter a good price for it. While containing slightly more cholesterol than your average cut of meat, tripe is a great source of zinc, vitamin B12, and selenium. Additionally, the website of an obscure "tripe store" in Leeds, England boasts that tripe has the ability to increase ones libido fourfold (although evidence is a bit lacking on this phenomenon). But it is truly the taste of tripe that makes it remarkable. While its texture is rather odd, tripe has a rich and hearty flavor that is unmatched by any other cut of meat I've ever had. I urge you to experience it for yourself.

Although appearances may be deceiving, tripe truly is one of the tastiest sweetbreads around. The fact that it isn't more widely available to the gourmand's palate is, in my opinion, a load of tripe.

A Gateway Food: Guacamole

Heather Fendell  

My winter break was spent on the beach of Los Cabos, Mexico. En route to Mexico, I was hesitant about the prospect of eating burritos, tacos, and mole, as growing up, I was never a fan of Mexican food. Often too spicy, greasy, or covered in beans, Mexican food was never my first choice. One of my biggest reservations with Mexican food is guacamole. I was always repulsed by the appearance of the green, slimy looking dip, having never taken to the taste or texture of avocados. And in Mexico, there was no avoiding it; guacamole seems to deserve its own category in the food pyramid in Mexico.

During our first dinner out at Mi Casa, I decided to brave my fear and scoop the green goo onto a homemade corn tortilla chip. Instead of the visceral reaction I was expecting from the disgusting green goo, I was loving the velvety, creamy, well-seasoned dip that perfectly offset the crunchy, salty corn chip. I came to love Mexican guacamole, as it is always a fresh and perfect way to start off a delicious meal. My affinity for guacamole became a gateway for trying other Mexican during vacation, beating out the Italian and Japanese food I would have previously gravitated to on a Mexican vacation. And since coming home from my tropical adventure, I have made sure that my kitchen is constantly stocked with my drug of choice:

Chips and guacamole.