Twinkies



39 Ingredients, Most of Which Aren't Food

 According to Wikipedia, Hostess Brands, Inc is the largest wholesale baker and distributor of bakery products in the United States, and is the owner of the Hostess, Wonder Bread,  Nature's Pride, Dolly Madison, Butternut Breads, and Drake's brands. For many years it was based at 12 East Armour Boulevard, Kansas City, Missouri. After it emerged from bankruptcy in 2009 it moved to Irving, Texas.  It declared Chapter 11 again in 2012.



Mmmmm, Sheet Rock

This saddens me.  I grew up near the Hostess plant in Kansas City and when I was a young boy my mother would sometimes drive to their little outlet store where they sold soon-to-expire baked treats at a huge discount.  My favorites were the Hostess Cupcake (properly eaten inside out somewhat like an Oreo) and the Banana Dream (sort of a sideways Twinkie with a banana flavored "cream" filling.)  I air quote the term "cream" because I once did some research and found that the filling was actually unnaturally sweetened shortening.  Other stuff in Hostess snack cakes include sorbic acid as a preservative (it comes from natural gas), artificial colors and flavorings from petroleum, (what's with all this fuel?) and calcium sulfate, which is used in sheet rock.


Pink Slime


Despite these unexpected revelations, I have always had a soft spot for Hostess brands except for the dreaded Sno Ball; its garish pinkness really disturbed my sense of aesthetics.  But I loved fluffy, white Wonder Bread (Builds Strong Bodies Twelve Ways!) and the aroma of it baking inside the factory on Armour Road is one of the headiest memories of my youth (we never referred to it as Armour Boulevard, though -- that would have been considered high falutin' back where I come from.)

Everyone says American kids are getting fatter and fatter, and our First Lady has made childhood obesity her personal challenge to conquer.  I wonder if we got away from all these natural, organic ingredients like unrefined sugar, cream from grass-fed cows, enriched flour from pesticide-free wheat, and farm eggs hand-harvested from free range chickens and went back to ingesting man made chemicals, food coloring and Chinese vitamins, would it solve the problem?  The kids I went to grammar school with were all normal sized--maybe because we were so jacked up on minerals and gasoline we ran around in circles for hours at a time.

I know we are currently in a Farm to Table movement and this sounds like heresy, but if we initiated a nation-wide return to foods of the sixties and called it Laboratory to Table, we might just slim down our youngsters and help a venerable bakery rise out of its financial woes. 

I don't know about you, but I am really Jonesing for some unnaturally sweetened shortening right now. 

Enjoy

Last weekend we went to a restaurant that should have been named Cliche Cafe.  From arrival to departure, we were assaulted by all too common industry actions and phrases that must have originated in a Saturday Night Live skit -- but misguided restaurateurs regard as gospel.



Cabbage Rose Tattoos are De Rigueur



As my partner and I walked up to the host stand, the pretty young thing behind it (platinum blonde, diamond nose ring, black halter dress, cabbage rose shoulder tattoo) looked up blankly, then smiled and queried "two for dinner?"  As we were the only ones standing in the entry and it was 8:30 p.m., I would have thought this somewhat self-evident, but I nodded to confirm her astute observations.

Following her through the restaurant to be seated, I noticed how precariously she traveled on 6-inch stilettos. As we stepped from the front dining room through an archway to the adjacent room, she gestured at an imaginary line in the floor, glancing back at us as she alerted us to "watch our step."  I was confused because there was no threshold or change in grade, it was just walking on a flat, carpeted floor.  I stumbled a tiny bit so as to justify the warning.



Dawson Off Duty



By this time, I just knew our server was going to be a skinny hipster in black plastic eyeglasses and possibly a fedora.  (Ding ding ding!  I win $100!)  Introducing himself as Dawson, he assured us he would be "taking care of" us tonight.  This phrase is so ambiguous!  A nurse "takes care of" you, a hit man "takes care of" you, but a server in a restaurant?  Is he planning on coddling me or my eggs?





As Dawson tends to our menu distribution and preprandial beverage needs, I notice he is holding his other arm in the position I call Waiter Arm. Hold your right arm close to your body, and then bend your elbow so your wrist is almost touching your shoulder.  Now clench your hand and bend your wrist so your  palm is facing straight out.  It is a completely useless and terribly popular stance for servers.  It reminds me of a snippy French garcon in an old cartoon.

After describing the specials that "chef has prepared just for you" Dawson writes down our selections and departs, but not before declaring that he'll turn the order into the kitchen.  Huh?  Wouldn't it be more efficient to put it under a scarf in the cloak room, or stick it in the pocket of a departing guest?

When Dawson sailed out of the kitchen twenty minutes later and grandly placed our dishes in front of us, he asked if we would cut into them to make sure they were cooked properly.  This was confusing because we had ordered salad and pasta, but we did as instructed while he shined a little penlight onto our plates, helping us to ascertain correct doneness.  Gleeful that all was well, he backed away from the table with a flourish and uttered the inevitable one word departing server catch phrase.  Come on, say it with me: 

"Enjoy."

The Great American Hot Dog



Crown Roast of Wienies

 I've been thinking a lot about hot dogs recently.  It started last week when I went to see a "Kooza," a Cirque du Soleil performance that is traveling through Dallas right now.  I am always really careful about what I eat--I read labels, log daily calories and nutrition, avoid desserts--but the show was a matinee, I was at a circus, and the shrieks of excited kids and smell of stale, buttery popcorn was permeating the air so I had a hot dog. 

Since I once lived in Chicago my standard for a hot dog is fairly high.  I like the all beef kind (the ones made of cast off parts from three different animals are difficult for me to think about) hot off the grill with onions and relish and mustard and ketchup cradled in a fresh, soft bun.  What I got at Cirque was a slightly warm, red tube steak which had been slapped between two separate pieces of stale bread and wrapped in a foil pouch several days prior.  It was worse than a drive-in movie concession stand hot dog, if you can imagine that.

Speaking of drive-ins, my mom used to boil hot dogs at home and then put them in a large thermos along with some of the hot water from the sauce pan.  When it was time to eat she'd extract them with a long fork and fix them up with condiments she kept in a compartmentalized lunch box.  Her cleverness and parsimony (we were a one-income, very large family) made those dogs taste delicious.  (She also used to wrap cheese sandwiches in foil and then iron them while starching my dad's shirts--but that's another blog post.)

I probably won't be having another hot dog this year since I used my cheat card already.  But next year, when the wienie urge presents itself, I am going to pick my place and time to insure the reward is worth the risk.  When you allow yourself an indulgence, you don't want to be even slightly disappointed.  I think  those of us in the restaurant business need to remind ourselves that most of our customers are celebrating or dating or marking a personal milestone, and we need to remain mindful that every detail has to be perfect every time. 

Because frankly, anything less is no day at the circus.