Let's go to that American place! W3

Opening an American restaurant in Germany would be tough. Because of the sheer size of the U.S., there is massive differentiation between recipes and styles of cooking. There are major flavor differences from food on the West and East, North and South, and regional differences in between. Yet, if a German were to talk into my American restaurant, I'd want to serve them only the tastiest, most unique American dishes. To do that, I'd need to get a bit of everything, from all different parts of the country.

Soul food is a high priority on my menu, because when I think of American food, my mind drifts to the South. I'd serve fried chicken, barbeque ribs, corn on the cob, corn bread, plenty of greens like okra and collards, and maybe fried green tomatoes. Of course, much of these foods are fried, but it wouldn't be American without a little artery clogging.

The East Coast has a delicious variety of seafood. To be geographically fair to the whole of the U.S., I'd certainly have a section of Maine lobster, New England clam chowder, baked clams, shrimp and fillets of salmon. I would also include Southern seafood recipes like shrimp and crawfish gumbo.

There is definitely room on the menu for Tex-Mex dishes like chicken and rice, nachos, bean dips, quesadillas and spicy, southwestern chili. Although it could be argued these dishes are from Mexican origin, America is a melting pot, and we've done a good deal to make them our own.

For dessert, my restaurant would serve hot apple pie a la mode, with a cup of black coffee. I feel a German would leave this restaurant feeling full, to say the least, and hopefully with a new impression of American food.

Friendly Food W2

I first met my chef friend Charlie when he and I shared a hallway in the dorms. I was a sophomore at the time and he a freshman. We crossed paths while both of us were blasting punk records in our tiny single rooms; Charlie popped his head in my door and we realized we had a lot in common.

Before that, I always noticed the strange smells of food coming from his room into the hallway. Charlie had the strangest diet: some days he'd go to the farmer's market and make delicious homemade salsa (which he generously shared) and some days he'd eat raw spaghetti. We became close friends and eventually played in a band together, but he moved back home after Spring Quarter and decided to stay in Cleveland. There he found work at a café and restaurant, and started to hone his cooking skills.

In a positive turn of events, Charlie moved back to Athens earlier this month. He's back playing bass in our band, and he started work at a restaurant uptown baking breads and pastries. I tried his focaccia bread and blueberry muffins, and both were delicious.

Last week, Charlie came over to cook us up some food. It was past midnight, but everyone in the house was starving. Charlie raided our cupboards, pulling out forgotten produce and spices. We chopped up heaps of potatoes, onions, and peppers, fried them in a skillet, then threw them in a casserole dish with chopped mushrooms and herbs. We joked and caught up with old times while our dish baked, and when it was done, we ate half and saved the rest for lunches. Charlie still eats raw spaghetti, but I have a feeling he's going to be a great chef.

A Thanksgiving Memory, W1

For my first post, I'd like to share with you a fond food memory of my first remembered Thanksgiving.

My great aunt and uncle in Cleveland had the honors that year of holding the feast. I was four years old and just another of the little cousins in their Sunday-best seated at the crowded kids' table. I was starved to death but waiting patiently with my hands folded in my lap, staring at the shelves of horse figurines that lined the walls of the dining room.

The house was buzzing: Uncle was roaming the house in a cowboy hat and bolo tie, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. I remember the high cackles of the women cooking in the kitchen and the guffaws of the men sitting in the living room around the wood-paneled black and white television. The kids table was all shouting and giggles, pigtails and awkward hair-parts. The kitchen door swung open and our babbling stopped.

My aunt's pungent perfume wafted around my eyes as she circled the table, dishing out an armload of heaping styrofoam plates. I got a slab of white turkey touching the mashed potatoes and covered in gravy, crispy brown stuffing, sweet red cranberry sauce and assorted fruit pieces suspended in green jello. All I remember is the taste of the jello; it was delicious.