Sunday, April 25, 2010

Why isn't Congress looking into the great Artichoke Scam?

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Who cooked up the idea of eating such things?

by Ken

I mean, is there some secretly all-powerful K Street vegetable cabal scheming to disseminate the horror that is artichokes?

One of the realities I've learned to live with in Food Network programming (and no, I'm not thinking just now of the likelihood that if you turn it on randomly you'll find Guy Fieri screeching at you; I kind of like Guy, actually -- he really does know a lot about food, but they've got him wildly ratcheting up his most unbearable personal qualities) is the compulsive holiday theming.

It's trying even with a traditionally food-intensive holiday like Thanksgiving. I mean, a month of turkey and "sides"? Or Valentine's Day. Much as I love chocolate, two weeks of all-chocolate programming, every damned February, pushes the limits of even the most dedicated chocaholic.

But then there's the annual Easter trough. Easter, if you'll excuse me, is not a food-friendly holiday. You've got your ham, and I guess Easter eggs, and then, and then. . .

Okay, so we've survived Easter. Now, apparently under the pretext of this being spring, this morning both Anne Burrell and Alex Guarnaschelli were futzing with nature's own torture pods, artichokes. For cripes' sake. (I'm coming to have little expectation of wanting to eat much of what Anne cooks. But Alex is such a sweetheart, how can you not want to love her food? Note: no artichokes in sight in the photo.)

It's not just that I hate artichokes, although I do. It's this whole charade of pretending that this disgusting heap of inedible growth is a treat.

Don't you often wonder how certain superficially improbable foodstuffs were first imagined to be edible? Like the potato, for example. In its raw state, who would have imagined that it would be worth a second gastronomic thought? The inspiration that you could cook the thing in all sorts of ways and produce miracles -- genius!

Then there's the artichoke. This goes beyond even those shopworn vegetable hoaxes like broccoli and cauliflower and (cooked) cabbage. Cook one of those suckers, and try to breathe around the fumes it gives off. The very thought of putting something like that in your body -- good grief!

The artichoke, however, is nothing but hassle from the get-go. First you have to hope that the cook has done something, out of sight in the kitchen, with the officially inedible choke (as in arti-choke; shouldn't this have been a hint, people?.) Now you're supposed to sit there peeling those hideous leaves off and dipping them in assorted disgusting sauces so you can scrape off the disgusting underside of each leaf? Only to be "rewarded," eventually, with the "heart" of the thing, a small block of sludge that tastes like it was carved out of the "solid" section of the local toxic-waste dump. Oh, yum!

My junior year in college, I spent a term in France, living with a family in the capital of Lower Normandy. The fine old house on a street corner on the outskirts of town was the very house in which my hostess had grown up. She recalled that during the German occupation in World War II, her father formed a habit of standing out on the corner hurling imprecations at the German soldiers. Eventually a kindly one begged him to go inside so they wouldn't have to do anything about him.

(After the liberation of the city, which between aerial bombardment -- warning leaflets were dropped, but outside of town, so that no one, except probably the Germans, saw them -- and heavy tank and other grueling ground combat was about two-thirds destroyed, the neighbor from across the street, unhinged by the loss of her entire family, came up to her father and screamed, "Well, Monsieur ---------, you have your libération. Are you happy?" My hostess recalled that in November of 1944, always a rainy month in Normandy, it rained every day, when few of even the surviving buildings had roofs.)

On the plus side, my hostess's French fries, cooked twice in the standard French way, were heavenly. On the minus side, periodically she served her family, and me with them, in the guise of a great treat, artichokes. How do you handle a situation where you're being offered what to the offerer is a great treat but which sends your own personal gut into convulsions?

Whoever cooked up the Artichoke Scam, wherever he or she is, must be laughing his or her fool head off.
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9 Comments:

At 6:45 PM, Anonymous Mikbee42 said...

there you go again ken!
crap vegetablism ?
nobody will force you to consume the humble artichoke. just close your eyes when other people are enjoying something they are eating.
maybe people who have nothing left after war, death and destruction, find any food source as edible.

 
At 6:54 PM, Anonymous Balakirev said...

I would say that artichokes were put over on us here while our boys were over there, except that our boys always seem to be over there killing some large group of people, don't they?

 
At 9:31 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I must say, Ken, this is the most entertaining vegetable commentary I have ever read, by far!

J

 
At 10:45 PM, Blogger Unknown said...

Then there's the artichoke. This goes beyond justified those shopworn stemlike hoaxes equal crucifer and cauliflower and (medium) abstract. Navigator one of those suckers, and try to breathe around the waste it gives off. The really content of putting something equivalent that in your body -- nice heartache!

Olivia
...............................
DebtAdviceandSupport

 
At 11:16 PM, Blogger Philip Munger said...

Just quaffed a 2006 Rosenblum Kick Ranch Petite Syrah, as we ate chicken cooked in capers and lime, and a salad of pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and homemade pickled artichoke hearts. Though the artichoke hearts weren't as tasty as the syrah, they went well together.

I hated artichokes until one day....

 
At 4:32 AM, Anonymous Mark Scarbrough said...

Sheesh, I post a comment about eating meat and get a hundred vegans down my throat, slicing and dicing me. You hate artichokes and get a laugh. Where's the justice? Where's the justice?

 
At 6:05 AM, Blogger KenInNY said...

Justice, Mark? Justice??? Are you new to this planet?

And to all the vegetable apologists in our reading audience: Did you know that in Lower Normandy, or at least in Caen, at least in the memory of one resident, it rained every day of that roofless November 1944? Information like this is a gold mine at parties.

Cheers,
Ken

 
At 12:09 PM, Anonymous Bil said...

Well, the trick Keni, is to steam them very slowly in a pot with no more than a 1/2" of water and then take it easy on the dippings, maybe just some lemon or a little butter. The heart is the goal and the process to be shared with your fav choke wine and friend. We call it foreplay around here...

 
At 12:52 PM, Blogger KenInNY said...

Bil, it already occurred to me that I should have made clearer than I did that it wasn't just those heavenly French fries. That was just a "for instance." My Caen hostess, like most French housewives at least back then (the French being so notoriously picky about what they eat), was a mistress, not of haute cuisine, but of cuisine bourgeoise, than which there likely isn't a yummier way of eating on the planet.

Except for those damned artichaux.

Ken

 

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