by Jim Gaffigan
Butter Burger: Kopp’s/Culver’s
Growing up, I never realized exactly how seriously Wisconsin took its title of “Dairy State.” It all became clear when I was exposed to the Wisconsin butter burger. I can only assume the butter burger was inspired by someone’s desire to use as much butter as possible. A pat of butter is put on the bun, another is put on the burger, and the onions on top are grilled in butter. Not surprisingly, the burger tastes a lot like butter. Any state that puts cheese and butter together should get two stars on Old Glory.
Undead Gaffigan: Zombie Burger
Zombie Burger is a gourmet burger restaurant in Iowa that combines everyone’s two favorite things: burgers and the postapocalyptic world of zombies. You can get burgers like “The Walking Ched” or “George Romero’s Pittsburgher.” When Zombie Burger asked me over Twitter what I wanted on an “Undead Gaffigan,” I instantly knew—bacon, Cheddar, white bread, five patties (one for each of my kids), and jalapeños, because I’m a hot Latina! Here is the beauty that was created for me.
Given that I had a show that night in Des Moines, I went with the one-patty version.
Juicy/Jucy Lucy
I love Minneapolis and not just because I enjoy being in cities where I’m not the only pale blond guy with an oversize head. My head is so large that in middle school I had to use a football helmet from the high school. I don’t know why my head is so large. You could store a normal-size head inside my head. I like to think my head is like a head case. Okay, I will stop now. Anyway, whenever I bring my large head to Minneapolis, I always head over (sorry) to Matt’s Bar and get a Jucy Lucy. Then I usually go to the hospital for burns to my mouth. A Jucy Lucy (yes, that is how it’s spelled) is a cheeseburger where the cheese is, for some reason, cooked inside the burger. I suppose Matt from Matt’s Bar had the insight “Hey, instead of putting cheese on top of the burger, let’s burn people.” After all, who doesn’t like their cheese at a thousand degrees, or roughly around the same temperature at which they melt swords? There is another place in Minneapolis called the 5-8 Club that also claims to have invented the Juicy Lucy (yes, they spell it that way). This Juicy Lucy is pretty much the same, except for the i in juicy. I guess they did this to distinguish themselves from each other because they are otherwise identical. Kind of like Protestants and Catholics. Apparently the rivalry between the Jucy Lucy and the Juicy Lucy is rather serious, so I try to eat at both places just to keep the peace. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the burgers.
In case I die, I’m gathering a list of advice for my kids. All I have so far is:
1. Mustard on a cheeseburger is amazing.
2. Ignore lists.
FRENCH FRIES: MY FAIR POTATO
Sometime in the late 1940s, the Geneva Convention declared it a crime against humanity to sell burgers with anything but French fries. Well, they should have. Whenever you get served a cheeseburger with bland-ass potato chips, don’t you feel a little ripped off? “Where are the French fries? Did your deep fryer break? I better get a discount!” A burger and fries together is one of the great culinary marriages of all time. French fries are amazing and, as logic would have it, horrible for you. If you are eating fries, you definitely are treating yourself. I think we should just rename taking vacations “eating French fries.” French fries are like Crocs. You know you shouldn’t, but your life is pretty much over anyway. French fries are deep-fried. Unquestionably the most important deep-fried item ever created. I doubt the inventor of the deep fryer realized the impact his contraption of a heated-up bucket of grease would have on the otherwise bland root vegetable. Like a Hollywood rags-to-riches fairy tale, the deep fryer turned the lowly potato into a food star desired by millions. With all its success, I can’t help but feel the French fry still remains one of the more underappreciated food items. I’m not sure if it’s a mental block on our part or the fact that they are mostly classified as a side dish, but we don’t give enough credit to French fries. French fries are like one of those beautiful images hidden within another image. Often we just don’t see the French fries. We always want fries with our meal, but we don’t realize how important they are to the enjoyment of the meal. Not only are French fries a key element of fast food, they are possibly the one food item keeping most restaurants open. As I calculate, French fries are served with 90 percent of all non-ethnic entrées. Aside from the obvious pairing with a burger, we serve French fries with everything: steak, fish, a grilled chicken sandwich, a hot dog, even a gyro. French fries are so good, they change political thinking. When Congress was furious with the French for refusing to send troops to Iraq, they didn’t dare ban the actual French fries—they just changed the name to “Freedom fries.” Our government would not let a measly war interrupt their lunch.
French Fries as an Entrée: Poutine
I love our North American neighbors, Canada and Mexico. Americans really scored when you think about it. We could have easily been sandwiched between countries like North Korea and Albania. Phew! There is nothing to dislike about Mexico or Canada. If anything, they are the ones who have to put up with us Americans. We are like the obnoxious rich neighbor leaning over the fence, “Hey dudes, wanna come over and check out my new space program?”
Mexican food is one of the greatest accomplishments of mankind, but let’s not forget Canada. I’ve always had a strange affinity for Canadians. They always seem so nice, calm, and health insured. Because of their voluntarily living in perpetual winter and their almost absurd love for hockey, I never understood the Canadian character until I ate poutine for the first time. Like that last scene in The Usual Suspects, all the pieces seemed to come together. While poutine is a dish unique to Eastern Canada (Montreal and Ottawa), the concoction of French fries covered in cheese curds and (for no apparent reason) gravy, clearly deciphers Canadian culture. First, heart-blocking poutine is the easiest explanation for Canada’s adoption of universal health care coverage. I’m pretty sure I’m still digesting the poutine I had in May 2006. Poutine also serves as a sedative, making you so drowsy and serene you find yourself saying “a-boot” instead of “about.” The extra pounds you immediately gain help shield you against the bitter climate. The irrational love of hockey still remains a mystery to me, but I’m convinced it has something to do with poutine.
It’s normal for me to make unhealthy food choices, but poutine almost appears sadomasochistic. Poutine seems like the result of someone’s goal of making French fries even less healthy. “Well, the most unhealthy thing we could do is to cover the fries with every other food item that causes heart disease. Let’s get to work.” And that is what some brilliant Canadian did, and the results were incredibly successful. It tastes as amazing as it is bad for you.
I attended one of Ottawa’s Poutine Fests (they had two this year), where twenty-six vendors find creative ways to serve poutine. There is Philly cheesesteak poutine, popcorn chicken poutine, and for some infuriating reason, vegetarian poutine. While I was eating my second portion of poutine, I actually heard my heart say, “Oh no. What are you doing? Are you mad at me?” I could feel my arteries tightening. But my brain said, “It’s all right. It’s all right. There’s going to be some sweating. Well, a lot of sweating, but you’ll get through it. Bowels, you can take the weekend off.”
In Ottawa you get the squeaky cheese that sounds like you are cleaning a window when you chew it. I always get smoked meat added to my poutine. It’s not just the flavor of the smoked meat that I enjoy, it’s also the fact that no effort is made to explain what type of smoked meat it is. The following is a conversation I had with a waitress in Montreal in 2008.
ME: This meat is amazing. What kind of meat is it?
WAITRESS: Smoked meat.
ME: Yeah, I know, but what kind of smoked meat?
WAITRESS: The delicious kind of smoked meat.
ME: Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking a-boot, but suddenly I want to watch hockey.
This is triple-bacon poutine, for people
who are seeking a heart attack after the third bite.
French Fries as a Condiment
Pittsburgh and Cleveland, while very different, share a common phenomenon. Besides the fact that they are both rust belt cities with a passion for football, they both have the strange and unique habit of putting French fries inside sandwiches. Sandwiches are normally one of the few items that do not come with French fries. Pittsburgh and Cleveland snuck them in. I don’t know or care who did it first, because it doesn’t matter. It’s like sneaking an extra person in the trunk into a drive-in movie. Putting fries in a sandwich is just a beautiful thing. The efficiency and convenience of this idea is nothing short of brilliant. I’m not suggesting these are the only cities where this excellent behavior has occurred; it’s just that it has been perfected in Pittsburgh and Cleveland.
In Pittsburgh I go to Primanti Brothers and get a ham sandwich with coleslaw and crispy French fries piled high between two pieces of soft Italian bread. I’m not sure which Primanti brother came up with the fries-in-the-sandwich idea. Maybe the brothers had a meeting:
BROTHER 1: Okay, you jagoffs, we need to boost sandwich sales. Any ideas?
BROTHER 2: How about yinz guys put coleslaw on every sandwich?
BROTHER 1: Interesting. Maybe.
BROTHER 3: And French fries.
BROTHER 2: On a sandwich?
BROTHER 3: Yes, fries on a sandwich.
BROTHER 1: Are you drunk again?
BROTHER 3: No, but that’s when I thought of it.
In Cleveland I love to eat at a place called Panini’s that is legendary for putting fries and slaw in their sandwiches. This is different from the Pittsburgh version because in Cleveland the sandwich is ironed. By the way, they love to drink in Cleveland too. I imagine this is what you would call a “happy accident” created when someone in Cleveland was eating the Pittsburgh-style sandwich while ironing and drinking at the same time. This idea is not too far-fetched, considering that in Cleveland their river always catches on fire.
TOP MICROWAVE CHEF
Whenever a politician gives a speech about getting America working again, I always cringe a little. Not just because it’s an empty political promise, but also because I’m not a fan of work in general. I usually think, Ugh, I hope this work isn’t going to involve movement. It better not be yard work! I’m a fan of relaxing, and when I get tired of relaxing I like to do nothing. I view cooking as work. I don’t enjoy cooking, so I don’t follow the logic sometimes presented to me: “Hey, you love food, so you must enjoy cooking.” I also enjoy sleeping, but that doesn’t mean I like making a bed.
Thankfully, other people enjoy cooking. Even more thankfully, some other people really enjoy cooking. I guess I feel the same way about not cooking that those people feel about cooking. It’s really a win-win for everyone involved, especially if the food is free. I occasionally enjoy watching people make food. It’s relaxing, I guess. I have noticed that the Food Network is far more interesting when I’m hungry. When I’m full I usually think, Well, this cooking show is silly. Why would anyone watch this? But when I’m hungry, really hungry, the Food Network is amazing, a visual spectacle. I watch it like some of you degenerates watch porn. “Oh yeah. Whip it up, baby!”
As you know by now, I’m an eater, not a cooker. Besides the microwave, I don’t even know what half the stuff in my kitchen is for. Most kitchen appliances just feel like an unnecessary waste of space. Has anyone not on a cooking show ever even used their blender for anything other than mixed drinks? Before I got married, I stored blankets in my oven. Yes, it was that nice of a place.
Most of the times when I cook I’m using a microwave, which, of course, is not cooking. It’s just me pressing buttons and waiting for the bing. As I mentioned in my homemade hot dog recipe, I barely even know how to use a microwave. I’ve never tried to light one, but mostly all I know is you aren’t supposed to put metal or wet cats in there. This is not a good thing, given I’m occasionally in charge of feeding a gaggle of small children. “Okay, for lunch here are your options: you can have hot dogs, popcorn, or cold hot dogs.” The manufacturers understand there are people like me, which is why microwaves have buttons like reheat and popcorn. I once stayed in a hotel that had a microwave that had a dinner button. I pressed the dinner button, but when I opened the microwave door, there was no dinner there. I guess the microwave was broken.
When I cook something in a microwave, I rarely read the directions on the packaging. That’s right. I just wing it. I’m dangerous like that. I’m like the Evel Knievel of microwave cooking. I don’t even understand why some microwavable foods have instructions. If you’re cooking a frozen burrito in a microwave, are you that interested in quality? It might as well say, “Toss this into the microwave for a little bit and then shove it into your mouth after it cools, you tub of gluttony.” On Amy’s Bowls you are instructed to “Stop, rotate this dish, and stir the contents.” Like that would happen. I might as well be making something from scratch out of The Joy of Cooking. If microwavable food has any directions beyond “Stick in microwave and press a button,” I assume they were trying to add wording to the packaging to fill space.
BOSS: It’s kind of empty on the back of the package. Maybe add some writing.
EMPLOYEE: About what? It’s a burrito.
BOSS: I don’t know. Tell people how to open the microwave door. The packaging is going to look weird without writing on it.
Microwaves are like winter coats. They warm quickly, people never clean them, and they look ugly after a year. Nothing that you put in a microwave is that exciting. That’s why there is always forgotten food in there. At times a microwave just seems like a box to hide half-full cups of cold coffee in. The microwave is an odd way to cook anything, when you think about it. From my uninformed viewpoint it seems as though someone thought, Hey, you know the technology of the atomic bomb? What if we used that to make popcorn?
MUSEUM OF FOOD
If you are eating at home, this means you or someone you live with went to the grocery store. I’ve always had a strange attachment to grocery stores, and I don’t say this just because many of my stand-up set lists are indistinguishable from my grocery store lists. One summer in high school I had the pleasure of working in a grocery store. My job title was “stock boy,” which involved stocking shelves with cans and boxes of food while I fielded never-ending questioning from my well-intentioned but relentless born-again Christian coworkers. “Have you been saved?” “If you died right now, would you go to heaven?” “Why are you putting headphones on?” To make matters more inspiring, the soundtrack that played over the grocery store sound system that summer was a single cassette of Country Music’s Greatest Hits. On repeat. All day. Day after day. Near the end of August I was a devout atheist who knew all the words to “Elvira” and never wanted to enter another grocery store. El-vi-RA!
Now, by God’s grace and probably thanks to the prayers of those born-again Christians, I love going to the grocery store. For me it’s like going to an art museum of food I’ve eaten. Ah, the work of Frito-Lay. What a lovely exhibit. Peanut butter and jelly in the same jar? A masterpiece. What is this Double Stuf Oreos? How abstract. In grocery stores food is on display at its finest. All the produce is shiny and color coordinated. All the boxes and cans are colorful and organized. I love the food packaging. It’s like the clothing of food. “Oh, what are you wearing there, cookie? A lovely Mint Milano bag?” “Candy, let me help remove your wrapper.” It seems the fancier the food, the nicer the packaging. While Pepperidge Farm bread is packaged in the equivalent of a three-piece suit, generic cereal comes in plastic bags and lives on the bottom shelf like it’s homeless. I always think, We should find you a box to live in.
I couldn’t fit down the aisle of this NYC grocery store.
The variety at most grocery stores is staggering. There are innumerable kinds of peanut butter: smooth, chunky, natural, sugar free, crunchy, and even extreme chunky. I’m pretty sure if I bought the extreme
chunky, I’d open it up only to discover it was just peanuts. It would be extreme trying to spread those peanuts on bread. “This is radical!” The “extreme” products of any kind make you feel like a coward eating the regular stuff. “Hey, look at that wimp eating regular Doritos. You can’t handle the extreme Doritos, can you?” “Uh, I’m working my way up to it.” Grocery stores show how complicated we humans have made food. Dogs would definitely conclude that we are really putting too much thought into this food thing. This is probably why dogs are not allowed in grocery stores.
I’m happily married, but supposedly the grocery store is a great place for singles to meet. I’m not sure how this works. “I see you got the Charmin there in your cart. It really is more absorbent. Wanna grab a cup of coffee?” It’s impossible to buy toilet paper without some level of embarrassment. We all need it, but I am always self-conscious wheeling around the toilet paper in my cart. It normally comes in these giant twelve-packs, and I feel like everyone is staring at me. “Does that guy ever leave the bathroom?” I never want to see anyone in a grocery store, let alone singles. I was only hit on once at the grocery store. I remember it was early one Saturday morning and I was buying my daily bacon, when I got tapped on the shoulder. I turned around and I saw a rather short and very feeble eighty-year-old lady looking up at me. She said in a weak, scratchy voice, “Excuse me, young man, could you reach up and grab some ketchup for me?” Well, I’m no dummy. I know when I’m getting hit on. I smiled politely and reached up for the ketchup, knowing full well that she just wanted to get a gander at my derriere. As I handed her the ketchup, she said, “Thank you,” like I was some piece of meat, a boy toy, or something. Finally I just blurted out, “Look, I’m married, lady!” She acted all surprised and confused. “Excuse me? I don’t understand!” I shook my head with a smirk, raised my left hand, and showed her my wedding ring. “Married!” I loudly told her. “I’m taken!” A stock boy at the end of the aisle looked at us and inquired, “Is everything okay?” “I’m fine,” I assured him. “I know how to deal with predators.” Well, suddenly this sex-crazed lady got all angry at me. Like I was out of line. She huffed off. “Well, I never!” “And you ain’t gonna with me either,” I yelled after her. I have to admit, it was nice to get the attention.