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"KITCHEN SURREALISM From the fantastic "Cravings Website"" Written by Marilyn Ford © 1997,
Marilyn Ford
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There's a kind of recipe that has been pretty much extinct for the past two decades. If you're lucky you might spot one in a cookbook written by a local ladies' club or in the back of your mom's recipe box.
It's the kind of recipe that, as you read it, seems perfectly normal until one whacky out-of-place ingredient jumps out at you. It's the cake recipe that contains the improbable: a can of tomato soup. It's the recipe for Coca-Cola Chicken (which has reached such cult status that it gives new meaning to "Coke Classic"). It's the German Surprise Chocolate Cake made with - surprise! - saurkraut! The trick to this kind of recipe is that desipte its bizarre ingredient, the end result must taste perfectly normal. (After all, what art is there in inventing a cake recipe with saurkraut in it if it tastes like there's saurkraut in it?)
I think of these as Surrealist Recipes because they give normality a weird little twist and pull the rug out from our perceptions. They're the culinary equivalents of those Surrealist classics: Dali's melting clocks, Meret Openheim's fur-lined tea cup.
I can't help wondering how the woman who invented German Surprise Chocolate Cake discovered that saurkraut baked in a cake actually tastes all right. What were the other unlikely ingredients she tested in her cake before she hit on saurkraut? Frozen mixed vegetables? Kibble and Bits? Motor oil?
The bigger question is why women were motivated to dream up these bizarre recipes in the first place. Was it just a fad like poodle skirts, Morton Downey Jr., and wheat-grass smoothies? Was it a discrete little arena of pre-Betty Friedan domestic creativity that fizzled when women joined the workforce and came home too tired to do anything much in the kitchen but defrost Lean Cuisine and Sara Lee?
Personally, I would like to think these woman - let's call them Kitchen Surrealists were inspired by an instinct to "subvert the dominant paradigm" (to borrow a phrase on a bumper sticker I see a lot in Berkeley).
I don't care if half the women creating these recipes were Republicans in the voting booth, they were all subversives in the kitchen. They dared to defy Fannie Farmer, Irma Rombauer, Betty Crocker - those kitchen goddesses who taught them everything they knew.
"You have to know the rules in order to break them," so declared Gustave Courbet, one of the best of the bad-boy artists in 19th century Paris. My guess is that these Kitchen Surrealists knew all the rules of cooking by heart and could produce just about anything, from Baked Macaroni & Cheese to Baked Alaska, with enviable facility. And it was precisely because they had achieved mastery of the kitchen arts that they had the confidence - cockiness even - and restlessness to start pushing the rules around a little.
Talk about rule breaking: chicken bathed in Coke! cake moistened with tomato soup! They seem like an affront to taste buds and cooking tradition. But the Kitchen Surrealists triumph: they disprove tradition and convention because the end results of their rogue recipes taste perfectly fine. What could be cooler than breaking the rules and disproving them in one fell swoop?
(Kitchen Surrealists may be rule breakers, but they're not anarchists. Kitchen anarchists are typically children who gleefully create random concoctions made with weird combos like eggs and marshmallows and carrots and Nestle's Quick.)
Surrealist recipes are imbued with a sly sense of humor. Kitchen Surrealists fool the palate just as trompe d'oeil artists fool the eye. (For those out of the French loop, "trompe d'oeil" means just that: fool the eye.) The trompe l'oeil painting tricks you into thinking that little fly on its edge is a real one; the surrealist recipe leads you to believe you are eating a perfectly normal cake. Both have that "fooled ya!" moment : when you see the fly is just the artist's rendition of one; when you are told that the delicious cake you're eating contains an outrageously unlikely ingredient: saurkraut! (Those who serve surrealist recipes often have a bit of the merry prankster in them. With the timing instincts of a good comic they understand that the time to reveal the secret ingredient is not before the guests eat the cake but when they are half-way through eating it.) Like magicians and court jesters, they remind us that things aren't always as they seem.
I realize that the era of surrealist recipes is past. I feel wistful that they have gone the way of Hawaiian Luau theme parties, Doris Day domestic comedies, and Flavr-Straws. Could there be a surrealist recipe renaissance in the future? Who knows? Or, in the words of Doris Day herself,"Que sera, sera."
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"HECTIC HOTEL: The Burpenfoofer Family Reunion" Written by David M. Blaies © 1997,
David M. Blaies
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Now Jim wasn’t that crazy about family reunions in the first place. But everyone had insisted that, because he worked at a hotel, the family reunion should be held there. Besides, Aunt Alma pointed out, most relatives would have to stay in a motel room anyway. So, why not right at the Hectic Hotel?
“That’s nice”, crooned Sally. “That’s nice that your whole family is coming here.”
“You won’t say that when you meet them!” growled Jim.
As the family began checking into the hotel during the evening, the Food & Beverage manager strode into the kitchen and up to Jim while he was being slammed by the dinner rush.
“Jim, do you have a minute?”
“Umm, sure Sir,” “Ahh, just a minute.” Jim flipped 2 saute pans with his right hand while sliding the fish into the salamander with the left and burning his thumb.
“Hector, watch these!” He yelled out, and then turned to the F&B manager and said politely:
“Yes, Sir?”
“I want you to take the next couple of days off and spend them with your family, I’ll tell the Chef to change your schedule.”
“OK”, replied Jim while holding his left thumb in a dirty towel, “As soon as I finish up here”.
Later that evening, the family gathered in the Poplar Room, which wasn’t very large, as a matter of fact, wasn’t really large enough to fit everyone at the same time, but it was affordable. All the Burpenfoofers gathered around the tables and began to eat.
“What a nice hotel you have here,” smiled Great Aunt Gertrude. “Phooooot...” “Oh excuse me!” she whispered as she left the room. She was the first one.
“Bruuup,” belched uncle Wally from the far corner of the room. “Pardon me, and please pass the baked beans Joey.”
“Phooooot...” let out others and they excused themselves. “Pardon me” echoed in around the table.
Now there wasn’t a lot of air in that Poplar Room. Or it seemed that there wasn’t enough air in that room anyway, because pretty soon everyone except a younger cousin had left the room and was standing in the hallway talking as if nothing was wrong. Several of the men had gone outside to smoke.
“You see! You see!” snipped Ma Burpenfoofer to Dad Burpenfoofer.
Well after midnight, Jim and his wife had snuggled into the nice bed at the hotel where they decided to stay overnight. Jim’s wife had known that the free beer would be too much to resist for any Burpenfoofer, especially her husband. As things quieted down she got an idea.
“Honey...” she purred.
“Mmmmm” growled Jim.
He rolled over and nuzzeled her neck.
“Bruuuup” “Pardon me” whispered Jim automatically.
“Phoooot..., wanna fool around?”
“Never mind” sighed Jim’s wife. And they both rolled over and went to sleep.
Meanwhile in Dad and Ma’s room, Ma was crying.
“I’m never going to have any grandchildren! Never! Boo Hoo Hoo”, she sobbed. “Dad, talk to those boys tomorrow!”
In the morning around 11:30 most of the family was stumbling down to the Mezzanine for breakfast. Jim explained that this was brunch, but to everyone else it was still breakfast.
“And what would you like this morning, gentleman” croaked the questionable waiter.
“Coffee” “Coffee” “Coffee” “Coffee” “Coffee” replied the 5 Burpenfoofer men sitting together.
Suddenly Dad Burpenfoofer stood up and said, “I want to meet with all the men in that same room we were in last night for dinner. Right after you eat. I have something to say.”
Puzzeled looks shot around the room. Who was sick?
Later in the Poplar Room, the men gathered.
“There is a serious matter here boys. Now a few of you know your Ma has been very concerned about none of you having children. Well, last night she broke down in tears and cried all night,” Dad struggled with emotional control, “because she has no grandbabies.”
“Today, she can’t even leave the hotel room. That’s getting all the women upset. And I don’t like this.”
Jim felt that this wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
“So here’s what we're gonna do.”
“From this point on, and you boys know why, there’s some foods you aren’t going to eat”.
“First no beans”
“Uhh”, mumbled the stunned Burpenfoofer men.
“Second, no brussel sprouts, no cabbage, and no broccoli!” restrengthened Dad.
“Third, no more morning coffee.”
“But Why?” questioned cousin Peter.
“It makes you burp, knuckle head” returned Dad.
“And finally, no more beer.”
“WHAT!” croaked the entire room at once. “No beer! No Way!”
“Now you heard what I said!” Dad’s voice was getting louder.
“Ma wants to be a Grandma so I don’t want to hear any cryin’ about it.”
“Now get to it.” with that final command he strode out of the Poplar Room.
The next day, Jim was finished with his work in the hotel kitchen and went by the bakery to see if Sally needed a lift home. She had been working a party that night and had just gotten the last of the petits fours "out the door" when Jim bobbled in.
“What do you mean do I need a ride? Aren’t you going down to Paddywinkles for a brewski?”
“No", mumbled Jim while starring at the floor, "I have to go home”.
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"HECTIC HOTEL: A Culinary Satire" Written by David M. Blaies © 1997,
David M. Blaies
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Well, another sunrise and the day starts at Hectic Hotel. Jim is frying bacon when suddenly he turns to the cook next to him and says:
“I don’t think that this stuff is food.” The cook nods in agreement, but Jim knew he didn’t understand English... Just felt good to get it out.
Sally was preheating the bakery ovens when Jim strode in. She could tell by the clenched fist that he had something serious on his mind.
“I’m hungry!” he demanded.
Sally flung 2 cookies across the bakery to where he was sitting. Fortunately, Jim caught one of them.
“Do you know what’s wrong with the whole thing? Cooks! Here we go through all this apprenticeship or pay big bucks for culinary school and then do you know what you are when you get out — well do you?”
“A cook.”
“That’s right, a cook. Just like you were before you started. Just like every other schmoe at the pizza joint. Maybe you can even be certified to cook. The whole restaurant business is focused on cooks! All anyone wants to hire these days are cooks. The Sunday want ads are full of ‘em!”
“Now calm down. You’re not a cook, you’re a Chef de ...”
“Blah blah blah”, injected Jim. Sally looked stunned. She knew that the Master Pastry Chef was in the hallway, so could imagine Jim’s career growing up in smoke like those seared quail from the other day...”
“That’s right, I’m now a Chef de Blah blah blah,” retorted Jim.
A movement in the corridor caught Sally’s eye. The C.M.P.C. was working his way towards the bakery, still half asleep. The Executive C.M.C. saw him and yelled out from across the banquet kitchen, “Hey, doughboy!” The Pastry Chef looked miffed, but went off towards the Chef’s office anyway.
Jim regained his composure: “See, looky there. What do you get when you join a half-master pastry chef to a half -master executive chef?”
A blank look from Sally confirmed her bewilderment.
“Obviously, a whole master chef!” Jim answered himself with that all-knowing air. “Think about it, we go to culinary school to become cooks, make certification jumps that have nothing to do with real-world jobs, and move right up the ladder to become half-master chefs or half-master pastry chefs.”
“Now, slow down Jim. You know that the 2 professions are not the same. The thinking is different,” defended Sally.
“Oh Bull. Men cook on the line because it’s hard work. Pastries are for women.”
“That’s just because sauté chefs can’t measure anything.”
“Look, let me put it this way Sally. Now follow me on this. Let’s just say that everyone that is unschooled is a cook, all graduates and completed apprentices are chefs, and the few people who know everything and are over 50 years old are master chefs. Simple.” Sally pondered this while Jim pawed through the stack of cookies on a sheet pan near him, presumably looking for another oatmeal - raisin.
“Do you mean to say,” ventured Sally, “that the millions of people that go into the kitchen everyday are cooks, and the only other titles left are Certified Chef or Certified Master Chef and nothing else? No Sous Chef or Working Chef or Chef de Blah Blah Blah -- I mean Chef de Cuisine?”
“That’s right. Let’s face it, we live in the days of fast food — lots of cooks out there are fryin’ chicken,” snipped Jim. "And what are they?"
“Do you think that we could simplify it that much?” Sally was becoming more interested now.
“I think that we had better get our act together before the frozen Budget Gourmet meals put us all out of business!”
Suddenly the Master Pastry Chef burst into the room. “Sally, are those doughs in the proofer yet?”
“I’m getting them right now, Chef.”
Sally looked around for Jim, but he had slithered out the side door. Maybe Jim wasn’t part of the new world order after all, she thought. But with an attitude, maybe he wouldn’t be a part of the Hectic Hotel for long either.