Fear of fat, fear of sugar

Talking about food - personal, family and cultural eating choices - with friends and family can be nearly as cheeky as openly announcing one’s religious or political beliefs. Why so? My guess is that agriculture, like politics and faith, is necessarily both personal and beyond the individual. Cultivation, farming and orchestrated diets have been with us since we first set down the bows and picked up the hoes 10,000 years ago near the Tigris and Euphrates. In all that time, only in the past 50 years or so has the dialogue changed from how can we get food to how do we deal with all of this food.

Recently, my personal interest in food, agriculture and Epicureanism has driven me to question some of our culture’s commonly held beliefs. Although not in the majority, I’m not alone either. Berkley radicals, Brooklyn-ites and Madison liberal foodies are, knowingly or unknowingly, joining ranks with concerned rural family members, small farmers, the Amish and city folk, dying to get some soil under their finger nails, like me. There’s also the rest of the population who dare to trace our nation’s health crisis from farm, or processing plant, to plate. Like good Christians and Green-washed, born-again Democrats, we’ll make you uncomfortable doing what comes easy: “Did you know the aspartame in Diet Coke makes you want to eat more?” “Light beer like Michelob Ultra won’t make you lose weight!” “Are those tomatoes local?”

Of course, nothing’s worse than someone else telling you what to do. Foodies, however, don’t want your soul or your vote; we just want you to understand that food industrialists are duping us all into eating unhealthy and unnatural foods that are slowing destroying our food pathways, local economies and bodies. That’s all. And any problem we’re having articulating this situation arises from the fact that currently there are no clear or simple alternatives to the current system. Not only are there no clear alternatives, but the slightly hazy one’s have been demonized by Those in Power in order to maintain their power. Make sense? But we’re not the system; we’re just me and you, and your friends and family. So let’s try to shrug off one misconception at a time and understand the forces behind that kind of thinking.

Here’s one that has been bothering me recently: our nation’s fear of fat and sugar. Since humanity humanized, we’ve been seeking nourishment. Here’s the forms it comes in: water, fat & oils, sugars and proteins. I cannot live on protein and water alone, not only would it be unhealthy, but also no fun. Yet the messages we’re receiving are dying to convince us butter, milk, cheese, cane sugar, beet sugar, honey and full flavored beers are killers and must be reduced or avoided all together if you wish to cash in your Medicare.

This is absolute malarkey. First of all, for all of the “unhealthy” foods mentioned above, alternatives have been substituted and touted by their producers. Margarine, soy and skim milk, processed cheese, artificial sweeteners; these foods are no reasonable alternates, neither in healthfulness or flavor. Although cholesterol free, margarine simultaneously increases your body’s cholesterol while its trans-fatty acids rearrange your tissues. (The stuff is one molecule away from plastic) Soy is too highly inadequate nutritionally to be used as a milk replacement, and in fact inhibits the body’s intake of essential nutrients. Skim milk, the once worthless byproduct of cream products, contains practically no nutrients or fat, so you may as well drink water. Processed cheese has the same health benefits as margarine and artificial sweeteners trick the body into processes reserved for simple carbohydrates, increasing feelings of hunger. Light beer just sucks.

And your milk, butter and carbohydrates, all full of natural fat? “Saturated fat does raise blood cholesterol levels, and high blood pressure is associated with an increased risk of heart disease; but the other foods in a balanced diet can compensate for this disadvantage.” Harold McGee said that, and if I were you, I’d listen to him.

Tap some maples

Here in Michigan, March, the last month of winter, has nearly arrived. Over the last couple snowy months, my friends and I have been trekking on snow shoes across northern Michigan, taking note of the vast swaths of mature sugar maples, seemingly dormant but full of promise. The trees may look barren, but are poised for their inevitable mighty return. From Old Mission Peninsula to Saugatuck, we’d stay in a snow covered cabin, family barn or cottage, drink homemade beer and mead and pour last year’s maple syrup over skillet cakes before heading out into the night to make fire and be with the trees. Such behavior is mere rehearsal for my favorite time of the year: maple syruping.

The practice of collecting sap and concentrating its low ratio of sugar into syrup was begun by Native Americans and adopted by American Colonists as an alternative to slave labor cane sugars. Today's store bought syrup is usually made not only from high fructose corn syrup, but also regular corn syrup, and bears little resemblance to its inspiration. True maple syrup has a strong, unified, clean and concentrated sweetness which I cannot remember ever tasting before my first full pan boiled down.

The sugar maple, Acer Saccharun, is abundant throughout the Northeast, from Ohio into Canada. In their book Michigan Trees, Barns and Wagner explain, "the word acer derives from the anchient word ac, meaning "sharp"", which refers to the leaf's pointed lobes. The trees are easiest to identify in the fall, when their broad five lobed and sharp leaves turn brilliant yellows, purples and reds, but identification is also possible after the leaves have fallen. First, look for a vase or spreading shape to the overall tree as opposed to round, oval or columnar. Now look to the bark. Deep fissures and dark grey, plated furrows should tip you off, but be careful not to tap an oak! These trees often reside in strands near each other, so to make sure you're looking at a sugar maple, follow a lower branch with your eyes out to the newest growth. The youngest twigs should be growing parallel to each other outwards from the young branch with a resemblance to a stick figure. When you have identified a few maples at least 6-8 inches in diameter, you are ready to begin.

Food authority Harold McGee has identified four conditions for a good flow of sap: "a severe winter that freezes the roots, snow cover that keep the roots cold in the spring, extreme variations in temperature from day to night, and good exposure to the sun." According to McGee then, this spring should prove a very successful year. As the roots begin to thaw, the stored sugar flows up to the braches, and with a drill bit and a spile, one can collect a little of this sweet water and make some syrup.

In order to do so, a goal and production plan is necessary. You’ll need to decide how many trees to tap. Depending on the weather, I have found each tree tapped will produce 1/2 to 1 gallon on a good flowing day. About 40 gallons of sap are needed to make 1 gallon of syrup. For my humble operation, I decided to tap 40 - 50 trees for a few days, collecting around 150 - 200 gallons, giving me the capacity to make 5 gallons of syrup over a few days of evaporating.
Next you’ll need to gather the necessary equipment. All one needs is a spile for each tree, brace and bit or power drill and a source of heat to evaporate to sap into syrup. I use 5/16" black plastic spiles and run a 5/16" hose into buckets placed on the ground in the snow below the trees. I tap the south side of the trees, a few feet off the ground, using a 5/16" drill bit. Try to drill into the tree at a slight upward angle. Take your time and drill a prudent hole - a sloppy job will leak sap down the side of the maple. Next, gently tap in the spile. You should almost be able to pull the piece out with your cold fingers. Carry a spool of 5/16" tubing and cut lengths that run shy of the bottom to prevent night time hose freezing.

After a few days of the right weather (40 F days and 20 F nights), haul the full buckets to the evaporator. I fill up a keg with a spigot used as a holding tank. I only collect as much sap as I'll need, knowing that I can only evaporate down to 3/4 - 1 gallon of syrup in 12-14 hours of boiling. (My system is not very efficient).

Almost any type of burner can be used as an evaporator. For small operations, a pot on the stove top or wood burner overnight will work great. For larger operations, an evaporating pan will be needed. For my medium size operation, I had a 22" long X 18" wide X 4" deep pan constructed from stainless steel with a spigot welded on one end. I heat it with two inexpensive turkey fryer burners fueled by 20lb propane tanks. Although it’s more effort, heating with wood would greatly reduce the cost of my system. To make syrup from sap, water is evaporated and the sweet maple sugars concentrated. The constant addition of sap should equal the evaporation rate. The sap depth in the pan should remain shallow and constant to increase the rate of evaporation. I set the drip on my keg holding tank and keep an eye on it until the rate is established. Be careful! Scorching a batch is easier than you think!

If you'd like, take a gravity reading of the sap. It could fall anywhere between 1 - 4%. Use the balling scale on a beer and wine hydrometer. Continue to taste the sap as it sweetens into syrup. When the syrup "fans" out from the side of your spoon, it is nearly finished. Watch the heat closely; I usually turn off one of my burners at this time. Check the gravity of the syrup with the syrup hydrometer - if it is close I run the syrup off into gallon glass jugs to be finished more accurately later on a single burner in a smaller pan.
The syrup can be poured through a strainer, straining bag or cloth to collect ash or other substances. I find that within a week or so in the glass jug the syrup falls clear. To finish the syrup, I pour off the leavings in the bottom of the jugs, bring the syrup to the perfect sugar level, pour through a strainer again and funnel into small glass bottles.

To learn more and acquire supplies visit www.sugarbushsupplies.com and www.sicilianosmkt.com.

Brewers and Bakers

The rise in popularity of home beer and wine making is evidence of a much larger trend: the return of food production to the homestead. Farmer and food philosopher Wendell Berry has pointed out our culture’s trend towards consumerism and away from home production. Beginning after WWII, Americans began to purchase more and more of their nutritional needs from large scale food factories. Small family producers (local bakeries, breweries, etc.) and home production methods, accumulated knowledge and skill severely declined. Food evolved from basic need to commodity - taste and nutrition to branding and packaging. Beyond an economic analysis, this detachment from our food has left us blind to basic health needs and risks. Our dependence on other’s cooking, baking, brewing, and canning has left most Americans in poor shape health wise – not to mention taste wise!

Stemming the consumer tide, Americans began to ask for more from their food and drink. One could only take so much Wonderbread, but healthier and tastier products were few and far between. Phone calls about pickling and baking were placed to grandmas and great aunts while home brewers organized and changed federal laws, only to start their own uncompromised breweries. Berry’s aspiration for increased home production is certainly being worked towards, if only in a new, culturally dynamic manner.

In our time, organic food has become a ubiquitous alternative to conventional food, whilst “green” and “sustainable” imply new (old) production practices in harmony with the ecosystem. As our global economy reaches for the last of the easily obtainable natural resources, those seeking further change in the way we do food business would be wise to learn how former generations made do without the extravagant hoopla of boxed cereal, snack crackers and store bought cookies. The past is the key to the present, or even the future, so let’s take a closer look at a model cooperative and community based producer/consumer relationship nearly extinct today: bakers and brewers.

“Humans have been eating raised breads for 6,000 years, but it wasn’t until the investigations of Louis Pasteur 150 years ago that we began to understand the nature of the leavening process,” explains food authority Harold McGee. Pre-Pasteur, rising dough was a magical thing – a gift from the gods, as was a foaming white crown on a vat of fresh malt wort. Yeast was the culprit, fermenting the bread and beer’s sugars into alcohol (baked off in bread) and Co2, transferred from batch to batch by the baker and brewer who added a small portion of their last creation to the next.

Beer and bread follow a similar history and evolution. Both are derived from various grains. Ancient cultivators cracked or ground open dried kernels and mixed the flour into a paste with water. Wild yeasts residing on the husks, stems and leaves naturally mixed into the porridge, releasing Co2 bubbles in reaction with the glutens, lightly expanding the batter. To make beer instead of bread, the grain’s starch must first be converted into sugar. This is a natural task for nature, as the enzymes necessary for this transition reside, along with the yeasts, on the husks of the barley, rye and oats gathered for eating. Leave the cracked grains in warm water and “nature’s scissors” go to work dicing up the carbohydrates into shorter sugar chains the yeasts can easily metabolize into alcohol and Co2. The concoctions probably did not taste very good or last long before spoilage, so spices and herbs, and eventually hops were added to doctor it up.

In the European Middle Ages and early modern times, both brewers and bread makers gathered similar ingredients and sold or traded with the same community members. They shared heat and fuel for baking and boiling, grain supply and, most importantly, yeast. Once yeast metabolizes and multiplies enough to raise dough or ferment strong sweet wort, they must be kept fed or they will die. It was therefore common for bakers and brewers to share each others active yeast in the form of dough or krausen off the head of fermenting wort.

Reading about this timeless relationship inspired me to ferment and bake my first loaf of bread at home. Here is a list of the necessary ingredients and simple procedure a Siciliano’s Market customer gave to me, saying he hasn’t purchased a loaf of bread in three years! The finished warm wheat bread is sweet and nutty with a pleasant girth that is not too heavy. Its hearty mouthfeel is balanced by the sweet honey flavors and high friability afforded by the addition of fat. If you’re a brewer, try adding a handful of spent grains.

Mix together 3 cups whole wheat flour, 1 tablespoon salt, 4 ½ teaspoons (2 packets) active dry yeast, ¼ cup shortening (or bacon fat) and 1/3 cup honey. If available, use a mixer with a bread hook. Add 2 ¼ cups very warm water and 2 – 4 cups all purpose flour while mixing.

Next, grease a large bowl and cover with a tea towel. Place in oven on warm for 30 minutes to allow the dough to rise. Take out of oven, flour hands, punch down, break in half, kneed, fold and turn the dough. Roll up and turn ends into a medium large non-stick or greased bread pan. Cover with tea towel and return to oven again to rise for 20 – 30 more minutes. Remove, heat oven to 375 F, return and bake for 20 – 25 minutes. Tap crust and listen for a satisfying hollow knock indicating a finished loaf.

Remove from oven, place loaf and pan on a cooling rack. Carefully remove loaf from pan after an hour and let cool. Bread can be sliced once cooled. Store in a paper bag for immediate use or freeze in plastic or foil.

Beer is made from water

With all the fanfare surrounding beer, it’s often easy to forget the beverage is made mostly from water, and that the profile of the water being used greatly determines the profile of the beer. To most of us, the attributes that characterize our favorite beers are both tangible and intangible. You may like the features of the subtle, balanced, or extreme malt or hop profiles, the clean or ester laden aroma supplied by the yeast, the session or imperial alcoholic strength, or the long sweet or quick crisp dry finish. Underneath these perceivable descriptors, however, is the understated flavor of the water used to brew the beer.

Throughout history, sources for clean drinking water in urban settings have been difficult to maintain. Before the scientific and industrial revolutions and subsequent upgrade of health standards, one simply did not know if the water was safe to drink. Back then, people drank a lot more beer, wine, cider and distilled beverages, not out choice, but necessity. For beer, the full flavor brews collected from the first rinse of the grain bed were reserved for special seasonal occasions. The second runnings made the common, everyday beer and the diluted third rinse was fermented into small beer for children. Fermentation of the varying levels of malt sugar in the water into alcohol, a natural preservative, protected the beverage from spoilage; and as any home brewer quickly learns, beer will only make you sick if you drink too much! Louis Pasteur’s discovery of bacterium has since negated beer as a basic need, and beer in our country is now not as often consumed solely out of necessity.

Nonetheless, beer is mostly water, and the varying sources of water used across the globe for brewing beer has played a major role in the formation of contemporary beer styles. Not out of coincidence, major centers of brewing formed around good sources for water. Brewing beer takes clean water, and lots of it; gallons are necessary for each pint you sip. As outlined by home brewer extraordinaire John Palmer in his ineffaceable book How to Brew, the two most famous sources for brewing water are the Pilsen region of the Czech Republic and Dublin in Ireland, where clean, hoppy, golden pilsners and dark, malty stouts are brewed, respectively.

In examining why Ireland’s water favors stouts and the Czech Republic’s pilsners, one begins to understand the dynamic evolutionary formation, based on varying water profiles, of the world’s beer styles. To brew beer, warm water is added to milled malted barley and allowed to rest together for a short period of time. This process is termed mashing. (Barley that has been malted was momentarily allowed to sprout, then quickly dried, capturing the plump starch inside the husk). The added warm water activates enzymes on the husk of the malt kernels which in turn convert the starch into malt sugar - which is soon drained off, boiled with hops and fermented by yeast into alcohol. However, if the mixture of malt and water is too alkaline or acidic, unwanted flavors will also be extracted, along with the malt sugar, into the eventual beer. Therefore, two factors determine rather or not the sweet sugar water will make a good product: malt and water composition.

Let’s first take a look at malt. Since the advent of Porter during the industrial revolution, beer is brewed from both plain malted barley and also malted barley that has additionally been kilned at varying temperatures and humidity. (Non-malted barley that has simply been roasted black is also used, especially in stout, along with other adjunctions such as sugar, wheat, rye, corn and oats). The pale colored malt yields a golden beer while the addition of other malts to the recipe changes the colors and aromas. For this discussion however, what is most important to understand is that beyond color and flavor, varying degrees of malt color and kilning impact the pH of the mash rest, which impacts the flavor of the sweet sugary wort run off from the mash. The darker the grain, the higher its acidity; therefore, adding a very dark grain, like roasted barley, to pale malt will have the effect of increasing acidity and therefore reducing the pH of the mash rest, as pH and acidity have an inverse relationship. Add no colored malts and the pH contribution of the grains remains on the high end.

The alkaline or acid contribution of water in the mash rest is determined by the water’s content of dissolved salts or minerals. In Palmer’s classic water profile examples, Czech water is remarkably low in calcium, magnesium, bicarbonates and sulfates: minerals which define “hard water,” and is therefore exemplarily termed “soft”. These “salts,” as brewers often refer to them, harbor pH buffering traits which, in relation to the recipe’s malt, can help reach the threshold necessary for a desirable mash pH. The soft Pilsen water mixes well with the lower acidity of pale malt, producing a perfect mash environment and yielding a soft, bready, golden beer whose subtle hopping clearly comes through. Higher acid malt, like roasted, black or brown, would reduce the pH below the range, negatively impacting the flavor profile of this famous beer style. Therefore, without the addition of brewing salts such as calcium, gypsum (sulfate), or magnesium, good beers of color are simply not made in the Czech.

The example and history of Dublin’s water and famous beer Guinness is then revealed: the extremely high levels of brewing salts dissolved in Dublin’s water, such as bicarbonate from the island’s underlying gypsum, are far too alkaline to achieve a proper mash pH, and pale beers brewed here without dilution of water hardness are overly harsh and unpleasant. Arthur Guinness used the highly acidic non-malted roasted barley to counter the astringent flavors of pale beers brewed in this region and in turn created the single most renowned beer in the world. Major brewing centers such as Burton-on-Trent (IPAs), Vienna (Red Lagers) and Edinburgh (Malty Ales) fall in between the extreme examples of Dublin and Pilsen and established themselves by honing in the proper malt and hop combinations in accordance with what their water had to offer. Organically, beer brewed in harmony with the water tasted best and such breweries stayed in business.

Beyond pH of the mash, brewing salts dissolved in varying water profiles contribute directly to the flavor of beer. In Michigan, municipal water was ounce drawn from below our cities, and was especially hard in Grand Rapids in particular. Now however, most water is drawn at near surface level from Lake Michigan, giving us our current low levels of calcium, bicarbonates and sulfate – and high chlorine. Regional breweries deal with this situation differently. In general, Michigan breweries heat the water to remove the excess chlorine, and add the necessary salts to buffer the desired mash pH. The impact of calcium sulfate (gypsum) and calcium chloride on the flavor profile of a beer, however, does not go unnoticed. These two indelible brewing salts are the key to honing a beer’s intangible characteristics. Sulfates contribute to a beer’s dry, crisp, fast finish, drastically enhancing the hop profile of a pale or IPA. Calcium chloride enhances the malty characteristics of a beer, rounding out sweet aromas and visceral residual sugars with a specific poignancy. The proper balance of these brewing salts can turn a muddled, confused, impotent mess into a complex, purposeful fermented statement.

So next time you sip a beer, try tasting on a new level. Pick a simpler pale ale style from the board. Swirl the carbonation from solution and allow the sample to warm. Smell and taste the malt and hops first, but then continue to focus attention. Swallow, and as the structure washes down, taste at the front of your mouth. You should taste either a predominately sweet or salty aftertaste. If the finish was especially dry and the hops more present than the malt body, chances are your perception will trend salty, as gypsum was used to enhance these characteristics. If the malt body just can’t be beat and the hops are always fighting for recognition, chances are the gypsum levels are lower than the calcium chloride. Within this realm, I believe, truly lie the reasons behind beer preference - if you’re honest with yourself, that is.

Craft Beer: Redrawing the battle lines

For the past couple generations of beer drinkers, the differences between a good beer and a cheap beer were obvious. Good beers were usually ales which came in an amber bottle, had some hop aroma and flavors, a varying range of color, actual flavor, were drank warm and could be expensive. Cheap beers were always yellow lagers, usually available in a can, were served too cold to taste, tasted poor when warm or sober and were, well, cheap. Much like American politics, there was a clear line in the sand and each side’s members were firm in their beliefs.

The brewers of cheap beers, i.e. Coors, Anheuser-Busch, Labatt and Miller, however, have stepped up their game in response to the exploding popularity of craft beer. I haven’t seen a beer commercial with a bikini in it for too long now, instead they all focus on the quality of their malted barley, their imported hop aroma and their long standing history of integrity in brewing. What are those Michelob people talking about “crafting a better beer?” Are we being fooled by multi-million dollar ad campaigns or is Michelob actually brewing a solid Dunkel Weisse?

Tonight I decided to pony up and try a few of these macro produced micros. I’ve just decided beer should be judged on its own perceivable merits rather than by my preconceived artisanal ideologies. I figure I’m an open-minded reflexive thinker; besides, the industry is rapidly changing and I don’t want to be left out. The lines between craft and corporate really are becoming blurred, and every brewery has the same intentions at heart: selling beer.

American Pale Ale is my favorite style of beer. Its nearly unitary resolve of citrus hop nose, medium malt backbone and assertive crisp bitterness calls to my senses no matter what the dish or season. Michelob’s Pale ale claims Yakima Valley, WA dry hop additions over an English style malt bill. The actual nose, however, had much more subtle malt sweetness. I could, however, smell and actually taste hops. In fact, the tenuous body left quite a bit of bitterness exposed, bravo! No Sierra Nevada, but it definitely stands on its own qualities.

The Dunkel Weisse dark wheat ale was also surprising. Banana and clove nose with a persistent cream-tan head, just like a real German. The color was possibly a little light, but the flavors were layered starting with sweet, pasty malt and yeast textures then finishing dry, with fruity-esters and humble but resolved roasty bitterness.

The last two I tried were porters from Michelob (owned by A.B. who is now owned my Belgium’s InBev) and Canada’s Labatt. Both were drinkable, the Michelob even enjoyable.

So what’s going on here? A lot of beer drinkers and brewers are confused, even miffed. So before you too get up in arms, let’s consider the new world of beer that this trend represents. No longer does drinking a product brewed by A.B. mean you are drinking swill, and why should it? We all know drinking a craft produced beer does not necessarily mean you’re drinking a good tasting product. Were we really ignorant enough to believe just because Bud and Coors Lite tastes like dirty penny tea these brewers couldn’t construct a good batch of ale? Contrary to common knowledge, the brewers of A.B., Coors, Molson, Labatt and others are arguably the best in the business and it’s about time they bottled a product the epicurean can enjoy.

Need craft beer fans or producers worry? Hardy! The next age of beer is finally here, old traditions have ended and new curvy lines are being sketched, redrawn and erased. Labatt pushing a porter is pretty good news to me. A.B. releasing an American Ale, Michelob advertising a Pale Ale – sounds to me like we won! Prohibition homogenized beer selection in the U.S., people eventually became bored with swilly yellow fizz drinks, the craft beer revolution offered the antonym alternative and now the big boys are listening. Welcome eclecticism! Don’t mistake me, there’s obviously big differences between quality craft beer and these A.B. imitations, however, the resemblance is significant: consumers are trending toward flavorful beers.

Incidentally, I smell a backlash in the near future. If craft breweries want to stay craft, they best dearly guard the attributes which separate them from corporate powers, namely dynamic and experimental brewing. The craft journey has gotten us to this point: bourbon barrel aged monsters, triple dry-hopped megaliths but also rejuvenated session beers, vinous acidic sippers, style bending ingredient infusions and bacteria inoculated cellar dwellers. Corporate brewers have come in on the ground floor with pales, wheats, porters and stout – but they could quickly climb. One thing they cannot do, however, is take a chance. That’s what we can still only ask from our craft brewers – break the rules and let’s see if anyone ever figures it out. That sounds like an artist to me, not a machine.

The Wisdom of Ali El Sayed

Eating is not as simple as it to be. Just a few short years ago most of us Americans were blissfully unaware of the story behind our food – slowly we’re beginning to understand how naive we have been. In the industrialized West (and East), food is produced for profit but not necessarily for healthy consumption. The path our food takes – from plant or animal to plate – has become mired in industrial confusion. Most all of our food is delivered to us courtesy of fossil fuels, genetic modification and corporate agro-businesses who determine how major producers grow their products; none of which has to do with good eating. Meanwhile, a fewer number of people actually cultivate the food we all need to sustain ourselves – and our steady population expansion – which decreases diversity and increases the risk of disease, famine and generally unhealthy food choices. However, journalists, scholars, academics and chefs like Michael Pollan, Barbara Kingsolver, Morris Berman and Alice Waters finally have the average person at least questioning what it is they eat. For answers, more and more people are turning to their local farm markets, organic food stores and local chefs.

Recently, while roving New York City’s boroughs in search of food and drink, I met a man whose wisdoms and philosophies personally addressed our sad eating circumstances. His name is Ali El Sayed, owner/cook/sage of the humbly titled Kabab Café in Astoria. My friend and guide, a fellow gourmand, brought us on a good night. The tiny mosaic decorated Egyptian diner (twelve seats) bordered by bodegas, a hookah lounge and his brother’s restaurant, was empty. At times there can be a wait. Soon Ali entered, asked if we were hungry, and then told us everything he would cook for us. No menu – no prices, just food. Did we eat meat, fish or vegetable he wanted to know? Before any conclusive decision was made, Ali set before us small platters with various spices and herbs and a tiny bowl of peppers, lemon juice and oil. Stove hot falafel followed with porous humus and evergreen baba ganouj.

Ali El Sayed told us to drink some wine and enjoy, food is for savoring, not devouring! (He could tell we were hungry.) The simple Middle Eastern spices primed our palates and related us to the future courses. I began to take mental notes as Ali continued to feed and enlighten. It may have been the Malbec, but food wisdoms seemed to pour from the man like spices from his tins! The more he spoke, the more I understood the culture of food Ali embodies and expresses. His poignant lessons made sense in this our world of senseless eating.

Ali first said food should be enjoyed, not gobbled up; basically summarizing the entire Slow Food movement. Eating slowly evokes the mind along with the senses. Work was put into the food you are eating. Care was taken in the cultivation, processing, and preparation of your dish. Savor the flavors and textures. Recognize the experience for what it is: time spent nourishing your body and mind. If you’re patient you’ll discover fulfillment for more than merely for your hunger.

Ali said patience will be rewarded. When you live in the city, long lines may be a way of life. Instead of dwelling on the wait, try slowing down and enjoying the things around you. If it’s good food you’re waiting for, it’s worth it! At Kabab Café, Ali is your host, waiter, chef and friend: a busy man considering you are not the only one dining. A mixed plate will soon be out with hot round bread and warming wine for you to prime with while he begins a desert and critiques the history of Middle Eastern food in the US. We have all become accustomed to immediate gratification, which creates a paradox when it comes to good eating. A short (or long) wait while the food is being prepared is an indication of care and love in the kitchen. In the case of Ali, who prepares the food literally inches from your table, one is actually able to experience this passionate process. Quick food may pacify your impatience, but it will not nourish like a paced and respected dining experience.

Ali said food should be flavorful. If not, why eat? To enjoy a meal you may have had to patiently wait for, it must taste good. Food grown or purchased fresh locally generally tastes best and proves to be the healthiest for your body – and soul, Ali would argue. As it turns out, local food also costs less because of reduced transportation and storage times and builds the local community and economy. The Kabab Café is definitely out of the way from the train line and a little walking is in order. You may find the same thing in your neighborhood. Maybe the best grocer, farm market or chef is not on your block or commute. Taking the time to find restaurants and stores which aspire to stock and serve regional fare will connect you to your food, community and develop your food culture.

Ali said Food connects us with our past. Queens is as a culturally diverse place as any on earth. The United States as a whole is a conglomerate of the world’s finest peoples. Originally from Egypt, Ali has gifted Astoria and New York City with rare traditional Alexandrian cuisine. His cooking is indelible to his former and current cultural residence. All of today’s foods and cuisines have storied histories; to partake is to acknowledge their successes. Our multiplicity of foods represents our varied cultural contributors better than any census. Digesting a new cuisine mentally and physically is an investigation into what we are as a people.

Ali said food should be shared. Dining in the tiny Kabab Café felt like Ali had welcomed us into his home. He personally showed us how he prepared his lamb cheeks, liver and sweetbreads. He spread his spices before us and showed our minds how to understand his cooking. Medium size dishes were set in the middle of the table and we shared each new carefully plated entrée. To participate with another person’s food culture is to share; just as we diners were eating from the same bowls and boards. The culinary experience combined teaching with learning, cooking with eating, talking with drinking and patience with reward. And as any chef knows, the most rewarding part of cooking is serving.

As the seasons change, so should your cuisine

A year ago this month I wrote in Recoil a piece called “As the leaves change color, so should your beer.” Seasonality, I argued, was the antidote to the lassitude afforded by drinking one’s favorite beer all year long. Fall is here, ready or not, and malty brown ales can help one coax. When it gets a little colder, a potent stout is effective. Really cold out? just nip some apple brandy. Hops move spring forward and hefeweizen dries the summer sweat off of one’s brow – all facts the brewing industry has by now educated most all but the greenest consumer. Now, these seasonal taste arrangements may prove true, both historically and contextually, but the foods which accompany these styles have only recently been available year round.

Human culture is inextricably linked to the seasons. Rational efficiency, coupled with ever increasing technology, however, has allowed for many of us to be removed from the ebb and flow of gradual seasonal drift – most likely to our detriment. This modernization is nowhere more evident than in the arena of food. Compared to past and foreign cultures, we Americans eat a lot. We also eat whatever we want, whenever we want it. This is not to say that we are inherently selfish gluttons. Actually, the greed begins long before we eaters partake – on the highways of the industrialized food chain – an arrangement we find ourselves at the bottom of.

For a little context, imagine that not until the mid 1970’s was California produce available nationally. The time period grocery stores across the country began stocking cantaloupe, asparagus, leeks and tomatoes year around and out-of-state, as opposed to seasonally, represented an economical crux – food was now being produced cheaply and abundantly enough to make cross-nation refrigerated trucking profitable. Other food producing regions soon branded and followed suit. (Washington apples, Wisconsin cheese, Idaho potatoes, etc.) What was once a luxury is now commonplace.

In order to make this happen, we the people sold out the farmer, subsidized his living to keep speculated prices low, divided agriculture and horticulture, standardized, pasteurized, homogenized, genetically modified, privatized and patented every congruent and painstakingly evolved farming process from fencerow to fencerow. What’s left is the indistinguishable mess located somewhere between farm and fork.

Today we’re feeling a backlash from this unsustainable system. Basically food, which was once a necessity and human right, has since been transformed into a commodity – a currency which is ultimately used to make the wealthy wealthier. And while we Americans are no longer starving in masse, diabetes, obesity, cancer and heart disease increasingly ravage our population – especially minorities and the poor. A pathogen based pandemic is sure to follow. Keep following me here and you’ll be rewarded with the knowledge of why drinking a local beer or buying a half-peck of fruit in season can help change these dire circumstances…

As West Michigan citizens, consumers and eaters, we’re in a great position to join a national movement towards sustainable, ecologically friendly, economically viable and efficient food production. Ask any agrifood sociologist or Lamont resident and they’ll tell you many farmers here have been cultivating using non-conventional (typically sustainable and organic) methods for generations. Why the stubbornness? It’s proven cheaper and more productive. There may not be a national or global alternative to industrialized food, but there is an antidote in West Michigan: buy your food, and beer, seasonally and locally.

Shopping and eating seasonally takes some practice, especially if you’re used to always getting what you want. Which brings up a good point – in getting what you want, are you really getting what you want? Fast food is an easy example: parts and pieces of who-knows-what assembled cheaply and efficiently as possible from across the globe. No one wants to be overweight and unhealthy, yet millions of us line up for unethical and unhealthy meals every day. No point in blaming the individual here – eating can be expensive, and these outlets can feed a busy family cheaply and easily. They are also extremely convenient and accessible – qualities CSAs and farm markets lack. So for those of us who can feasibly manage, eating locally, sustainably and seasonally will be hard work.

Start by learning about what is actually in season at Aquinas College’s Center for Sustainability: www.centerforsustainability.org. The delights of eating in season are three-fold. One, food in season not only tastes best but is actually better for you. Two, your dollars spent on food (think of it like a vote) will not be used to support long-haul trucking, international shipping, packaging or the bedeviled oil industry – instead your money will remain in and enhance your community. Lastly, as an eater who prepares local and seasonal fare, you will become an actual participant in an accessible and sensible food network – one which will surely enhance your and other’s well-being.