Potato Hedonism in Central New York

A delicious dish is a sensory experience that always takes you back to its place of origin.

Nineteenth century Irish salt workers in Syracuse, New York lunched on young potatoes boiled in the brine of natural salt springs "mined" for production of consumable salt. They inadvertently invented a regional summertime classic that is unique to the area and proof that the simplest recipes sometimes deliver the most sublime flavor.

Pasties on the Range

In 2003 my family made its first foray into the upper Great Lakes region of Northeast Minnesota and Michigan's Upper Peninsula (UP), beginning our long, continuing affair with the shorelines of the greatest lakes. Possibly the first sign welcoming us to the area hinted at "pasties ahead, 1 mile." Soon the byways were peppered with an assortment of sometimes shambolic roadhouses, neon "open" signs beckoning us to "Get your pasties here." My first thought was of tassels and cheap burlesque. But reality was in truth as tawdry as a senior's night checkers game at a nudist colony. We had stumbled upon a heritage dish, mining's contribution to the world's palate, the pasty (PASS-tee).

The pasty is perhaps the main raison d'être for an otherwise disrespected vegetable, the rutabaga. Other principal components of the standard pasty are beef, potato, onion and spices wrapped in a crimped pastry to form a semicircular pocket sandwich that is then baked to a golden brown. In the Upper Midwest, "spices" refers exclusively to salt and pepper. The pasty is right at home there. Its most scandalous aspect regionally is mild disagreement over the spelling of the singular item, some vendors preferring "pastie."

Variations on the standard pasty for the adventurous crowd might skip the beef altogether or include extra potato, and ketchup is an almost shameful side transaction not discussed between merchant and customer. Hoping no one will see, I've furtively grabbed a few courtesy packs of the condiment like a nervous youth in the prophylactic section of a drugstore. Gravy is a damnable abomination reserved for tourists.

Going Hungary in America

One of the benefits of living in a nation of immigrants is the rest of the world is at your doorstep if you can't travel there directly. And there is no better way to experience this smorgasbord of cultures than through your stomach. Each of the two styles of societal integration has its gastronomic merits. The melting pot gives us culinary fusion, while ethnic enclaves bring distinctive regional favors in geographic proximity.

My heritage is largely Hungarian, a small, fiercely independent nationality with an enigmatic language, whose people outlasted a millennium of attempted assimilation. Hungary nonetheless exported its national condiment throughout the world, and today paprika is found in virtually every North American home. Hungarian salami (szalámi) is also popular, most people have at least heard of goulash (gulyás) or chicken paprikás, and the Magyar claim no small portion of the credit for sausage (kolbász). But there is one meal reserved for celebratory family gatherings that makes me forget I have any other ancestry, and for a few hours I am purely Hungarian. It is the "dirty bread" of the Hungarian barbecue.

Süt szalonna (pronounced shoot SUH-luh-nuh), is literally "fry bacon." And bacon is the key ingredient, but it is a relative term. My grandfather used to negotiate for a chunk of nearly pure pork fat, held together with a few streaky wisps of meat and scored in a cross-hatch pattern on either side. Likely he got it for free after wearing down the butcher. My cousin is now the grill master, and he prefers blocks of sliced bacon skewered on a two-tined barbecue fork, much like you'd roast a hot dog on. I'm personally drawn to the fattier option only for its novelty. How satisfying is it to base a dish on melted animal fat in this antiseptic age of body consciousness? Which is the best approach is a topic for spirited debate around the fire pit, but there is no doubt, süt szalonna waits in Hades for the vegan sinner.

The Weekly Snack Run

Every place I live -- and there have been many across this continent and beyond --  we always seem to establish that one weekly ritual stop for a taste of the good life. When I was growing up on Long Island, it was Family Deli in Bohemia. There always seemed to be a good reason to stop there after church. These days in the Toronto area, our go to destination is the Monastery Bakery in Oakville, Ontario.

The Ultimate Travel Book?

Travel stimulates the senses, and there is no more visceral sensory experience than the combination of taste and smell. Grilling over an open fire is the standard cooking style across much of the globe. Steven Raichlen's aptly named The Barbecue Bible brings that authentic experience to your home. I know of no other book that so comprehensively captures the varied and distinctive flavors of the world.

http://barbecuebible.com/

I've made dozens of recipes from this book (a series of books really), and I've never been disappointed. Until I discovered The Barbecue Bible I left the grilling to my wife. She thought I was missing a gene. Thanks to this series, the grill is now my domain exclusively. The stories behind most recipes make for good reading on their own merits.

Is there another type of travel writing that can bring home the cultural experience of exotic places more than a good cookbook?