Fall 2018: The Fat Issue

FALL 2018

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR Rachel Prokupek MANAGING EDITOR Xander Gottfried EDITORIAL STAFF Abigail Sugarman, Alice Goulding, Anna Duan, Carolyn Barr, Grace Leahy, Ian McCormack, Izzy Lopez, Jason Pak, Katherine Ku, Rachel Prokupek, Shae Chambers, Zihan Kabir CREATIVE DIRECTOR Leah Sprague DESIGN STAFF Alaina Chou, Allison Kim, Carolyn Barr, Elisa Xu, Grace Wan, Jane Lee, Lizzy Machielse, Michelle Terng, Selina Nie, Valencia Fu PHOTO DIRECTOR Noel Zheng PHOTO STAFF Alaina Chou, Alan Jinich, Alexis Masino, Alice Deng, Ambika Natesan, Angel Fan, Angel Huang, Carolyn Barr, Erica W. Xin, Ethan Wu, Giny Jang, Jean Chapiro, Justine de Jesus, Leina Betzer, Maria Murad, Minna Zheng, Minsuh Park, Peter Ribeiro, Sophia Zhu, Yin Wang DIGITAL CONTENT DIRECTOR Justine de Jesus BLOG TEAM Alex Son, Dani Granowitz, Jean Chapiro, Josephine Hu, Katherine Ku, Maggie Tang, Maya Moore, Minna Zheng, Minsuh Park, Paul Na Songkhla, Rebecca Wang, Stanley Wong, Tyler Daniels, Victoria Wu CULINARY DIRECTOR Jennifer Higa CULINARY TEAM Allie Shapiro, Ben Weimer, Deniz Enfiyeci, Eva Killenberg, Jennifer Higa Juliana Sandford, Monhish Sabhani, Natalie Weil, Noel Zheng, Xander Gottfried TREASURER Chris Muracca BUSINESS MANAGER Kate Kassin BUSINESS STAFF Sophie Isaacs, Zach Essig, Kelly Sterman, Jason Wang MARKETING CHAIRS Nicole Seah, Rachel Zhou MARKETING TEAM Ayden Bauer, Connor Ling, Jacky Chan, Justin Yue, Sarah Tidwell, Shirly Liu, Victoria Wu WEBMASTER Edward Kim COOKING CLUB CHAIR Tammy Tan VIDEO EDITOR Carolina Salazar-Paranhos

INTERNAL SOCIAL CHAIR Allie Shapiro SOCIAL IMPACT CHAIR Katie Simms SOCIAL IMPACT STAFF Belinda Liu, Kaylah Walton, Lin Jia Chen, Maggie Tang, Richa Mehra, Sabrina Palacios, Selin Hepiseri EVENTS CHAIR Lori Kim EVENTS STAFF Emma Fee, Jacky Chan, Kennedy Manley, Maggie Tang, Niino Mariri, Rachel Wechsler, Thoman Bonte, Vicor Chien, Yingfan Wang, Zuqi Fu

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COVER ILLUSTRATIONS: Valencia Fu

VIDEO ASSISTANT Stefanie Lee

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR In writing Penn Appétit this semester, as we prepared to say goodbye to many leaving to study abroad, to a new semester more challenging than the last, and to a new cookbook struggling and succeeding to get off the ground, we tried to create something timeless, something we could forever cherish in our hearts. As timeless as that sneaky, guilty spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar. Timeless enough that no matter wherever you are, whatever season it is, this foodstuff will always be with you.

If spring is in the air, that awkward time in Philadelphia when you’re unsure if you should wear shorts or a sweater, then perhaps the last braise of the season bubbles on the stove. Short ribs simmer with verdant greens, crisp and colorful, as the meat slowly exudes its awesome excellence.

Summer. Even the freshest produce and ripest fruit needs a little something to make it pop. Sweet, juicy tomatoes drizzled with loads of fancy extra virgin olive oil. Berries and justwhipped cream for dessert.

Then the first leaves begin to twirl down from the trees, and you know fall is upon us. A rich pumpkin pie emanates its comforting smells from the oven and your growling stomach lets you know it can hardly wait.

Finally, a cozy winter’s eve, and all you’re craving is something rich and warming, perhaps a steaming lasagna, oozing unhealthy amounts of cheese and sauce.

One thing unites the seasons, one ingredient that is so much more than just an ingredient.

Fat. It’s the best ingredient, period.

Look inside and share in all its glory

with us. Learn about the types of butter (and which one you should date!) and compare that to the mysteries behind the truest Italian olive oil. Interested in why fat is so stigmatized? Read about the dramatic history between fat and sugar—never eat an ice cream the same way again.

But even fat, in all its greatness, needs some support. Vinegar is a great balancing partner—discover Keepwell vinegar along the way or that funkiest of funky drinks, Kombucha.

We have interviews, we have recipes, we have moving personal narratives.

But, most importantly, we have fat.

Enjoy!

— Xander Gottfried

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MENU Masthead 2 Letter from the Editor 3 What We're Reading Right Now 7 Philly Spotlight: Rosé 8 Tips from a Pro: Emulsions 9 The Ancestral Tug Towards Matzo 10 Ball Soup Crafting a Cheese Board 14 On Saturdays, I am a Carnivore 16 Guy Fieri 21 Right Amounts of Ripe 22

32 Chef Ian's Recipe Number 12: Pasta 34 The City of Brewery Love 38 Plantains: A Love Story 40 Sexual Harrasment in the Restaurant Industry 42 Fishing in the Last Frontier 46 FAT 48 Olive Oil, Explained 51 Finding Love in the Dairy Isle 52 Cooking with Butters 54 Nut and Seed Butters

Congratulations on Your 23 Cast Iron Pan

60 The War on Fat

An Unphogettable Meal 24

64 The Perfect Cake

Notes from a Kombucha Sommelier 28 Keepwell Vinegar 30

66 After a Medley of Mikes, Sal 70 The Other K.F.C

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Missed a semester? Didn’t go to Penn?

All our past issues are online! issuu.com/pennappetit

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what we’re reading now

BY PENN APPÉTIT STAFF PHOTO BY SOPHIA ZHU AND AMBIKA NATESAN

Gather and Graze

Meehan’s Bartender Manual

Parts Unknown: Season 12

From Chicago-based chef Stephanie Izard, known for her eclectic restaurant The Girl & the Goat, comes Gather & Graze, a visually stunning and energetic take on classic American cuisine.

From pork belly frittata to goat cheese cheesecake, Izard’s recipes successfully combine comfort food staples with gourmet ingredients that are made to be shared with a large crowd.

Jim Meehan, the brain behind New York’s infamous speakeasy Please Don’t Tell, compiled his tips and tricks to bartending in this manual. He includes the history of cocktails, interior design, and bar branding—so if you ever want to open up a bar, this should be your go-to.

The Great British Bake Off

Culinary legend Anthony Bourdain left one more gift for us. His last episodes of Parts Unknown are characteristically heartfelt, going to Kenya, exploring food, checking out the local fashion industry, and discussing colonialism. In the episodes he reflects on how far he has come, once again showing that he takes nothing for granted. The season serves as a truly beautiful ending to his career. Rest in peace, Chef.

This cookbook is from the chefs behind The Publican, a Chicago restaurant that describes itself as a sort of ode to oysters, pork, and beer. If you love unpretentious but slightly cheffy food, you’ll love this intricate but not impossible to make at home cookbook.

Recipes range from unexpected lentil falafel to ham “chops” cooked in hay to fresh pasta made with beef blood in place of egg.

With five seasons now available on Netflix, The Great British Bake Off is perfect when you need a break from the American hustle and bustle. Chipper bakers, soothing accents, scenic countryside, and drool-worthy biscuits can make any dreary day better.

Cheers to the Publican

Binging with Babish Ever wondered how to make your own Sloppy Jessica from Brooklyn NineNine or cannolis from the Godfather?

Wonder no more, because Youtube’s latest sensation, Binging with Babish, teaches the at-home Internet-cook how to recreate wacky favorite foods from TV shows and movies. This is a cinematic and delicious show for food lovers and movie buffs alike.

Buzzfeed’s “Worth It” One dish, three prices. Buzzfeed’s web series “Worth It” follows vlogger Steven Lim as he tries the same meal at restaurants of vastly different costs to determine which one is best worth the money. Whether you are an experienced foodie or just want to enjoy looking at delicious food, “Worth It” is a great show for all.

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spotlight in philly

Frosé

The Frozen Cocktail Giving Daiquiris a Run for Their Money

BY ALICE GOULDING PHOTO BY JUSTINE DE JESUS

Frosé, a portmanteau of ‘frozen’ and ‘rosé,’ the pink wine typically depicted as the drink of choice for suburban moms, became the latest food trend this summer. The frozen treat is made by blending rosé, cane sugar, and strawberries—or strawberry simple syrup—and freezing until almost solid.

The frozen concoction is then blended again to give it a consistency similar to a slushie—perfect for summer happy hours. Looking to try the cocktail and get an Instagrammable pic? Here’s where to go in Philadelphia, from fancy establishments to college-student friendly: BUD & MARILYN’S 1234 Locust St BAR AMIS 4503 S Broad St DAVE & BUSTER’S 325 N Christopher Columbus Blvd 8

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tips from a pro

Emulsions

BY XANDER GOTTFRIED PHOTO BY ANGEL FAN

An emulsion: what a nasty word. But this complicated, gross-sounding, scientific principle is what’s behind the creamiest homemade vinaigrettes, standard store-bought mayonnaise, and crave-worthy restaurant pasta sauces. So what, exactly, is an emulsion?

An emulsion is basically just a fancy way of explaining what happens when you get oil and water to mix, two liquids notoriously bad at doing so. The emulsion is what happens when, by careful mixing, a suspension is formed of tiny oil droplets evenly distributed throughout the water. Often times, however, this emulsion is very unstable. Think about it—if oil and water naturally prefer to separate, then the act of suspending one in the other will only be temporary—eventually they will separate again.

Here’s where emulsifying agents, or emulsifiers, come in. An emulsifier is a compound with a polar (water-loving) and non-polar (oil-loving) part. The respective regions of the molecule can then bind to the oil and water, holding them together and forming a more stable, permanent emulsion. You may have heard of chemical emulsifiers, known for their roles as thickening agents, such as soy lecithin. But the

most common, easy to use emulsifiers can be found in any home kitchen.

Egg yolks! Mustard! Honey! These are all made up of compounds which have emulsifying properties and hold emulsions together.

To make the creamiest, easiest, homemade salad dressing, start with some good vinegar, some salt and pepper, and a dollop of mustard. The mustard in this case will first bind to the watery vinegar and enable it to thicken and fully mix when oil is streamed in.

Start by fully whisking the vinegar and mustard, and then slowly stream in some extra virgin olive oil. The slower the better: the emulsifier needs enough time to absorb all the fat, otherwise you’ll end up with a broken dressing that just looks like lackluster oil and vinegar.

No matter how ugly the word, the results will be beautiful. Never make sad salad dressing again. penn appétit

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THE ANCESTRAL

TUG

TOWARDS MATZO BALL SOUP

BY ABIGAIL SUGARMAN PHOTOS BY ALAINA CHOU AND ALAN JINICH

There is this funny parable that my mom often tells my sisters and me: a young girl asks her mother why she always cuts the fligala (wings) off of the chicken before she puts it in the pan.

The mother replies that she does it simply because her mother does, and when the girl asks her grandmother, she says the same thing. Only when she asks her great-grandmother does the young girl get an answer: her pan had been too small to fit the whole chicken. And so, by fluke, this action became a time-honored ritual, passed down from generation to generation.

It’s not difficult to see the humor in 10

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this story, but it is also a fine anecdote of the power of tradition, even when seemingly based in nothing.

I often think about Judaism in this way.

I was raised with a strong sense of Reconstructionist Jewish identity in my home. Reconstructionism is a sect of Judaism seeking to consolidate Jewish history and culture with the world of modern science and technology.

Among other things, its doctrines include secular progress and tikun olam (repairing the world) through social justice, these being the means to the creation of a Messianic world, as op-

posed to a belief in divine intervention.

My family can be considered a pretty typical example of practicing Reconstructionists: we have Shabbat dinners every Friday night (as instructed by the Torah) usually followed by a Mel Brooks movie (not as instructed by the Torah); my sisters and I would go to Hebrew school every Sunday morning dressed in our soccer uniforms so we could run straight to our games from the shul. But there is one thing that even the most progressive, modern Jews have not modified, and that is our food.

The majority of American Jews are

Ashkenazi, or of Central or East European descent, and among their ancestors’ luggage and dreams of the “Golden Land” were recipes and foods from their shtetl origins. Gefilte fish, holiptshes (stuffed cabbage), knishes (meat filling wrapped in dough), blintzes, latkes, bagels, chopped liver, pastrami on rye, babka, rugelach, matzo ball soup—the conglomeration of Germanic and Slavic cuisine became the hallmark of Jewish-America. These foods not only served as a comfort and remnant of the Old Country, but also complied with the rules of kashrut (the body of religious laws concern-

ing food). In order for a rabbi to deem a food kosher, it must adhere to a set of strict rules regarding meat type and slaughter, the mixing of meat and dairy, and the preparation of food. It was most convenient for Jews to stick to familiar kosher foods, and so the diet of the American Jew was grounded in practicality.

Additionally, food is inextricable from the rituals and holidays of Judaism.

Shabbat wouldn’t be Shabbat without challah and Manischewitz wine to wash it down. Apples dipped in honey is the celebratory snack of Rosh Hashanah, fruit and chocolate-filled hamentaschen

(triangular pastry with a stuffed pocket) is the dessert of Purim, and who could forget the importance of matzo and the seder plate for Passover. All of our holidays are observed through food, or lack thereof in the case of Yom Kippur.

As Jewish-Americans become second, third, fourth, even fifth-generation immigrants, many have grown distant from the dogma of their origins. Though the American-Jewish collective psyche reflects a waning of religious faith, the secular and cultural elements of Judaism endured—and no more so than in the world of food. penn appétit

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Shabbat wouldn’t be Shabbat without challah and Manischewitz wine to wash it down.

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APPLE HONEY FRITTERS WITH TAHINI ICING RECIPE BY DEVON WADE INMAN Makes 12 fritters 3 apples, peeled and sliced into ¼ cubes 5 tbsp. butter, divided 2 tbsp. honey, divided 1 ¼ cup all-purpose flour 1 ½ tsp. baking powder 1 tsp. kosher salt 1 egg ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 tsp. vanilla ½ cup sparkling apple cider ½ cup raisins (optional) Vegetable oil, for frying ½ cup powdered sugar 2 tbsp. tahini 1 tbsp. honey 1 tsp. lemon juice In a large skillet, melt 4 tablespoons of the butter over medium-high heat.

Add honey, mix well, and add apples. Cook, stirring, until apples have released juice and the mixture has thickened to form a loose glaze, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool.

Stir together flour, baking powder and salt and set aside. Whisk together egg, sugar, vanilla and remaining 1 tablespoon butter. Fold in cooled apples and raisins, if using. Add apple cider and dry ingredients and stir gently until just combined.

In a large, heavy-bottomed skillet, heat 2 inches of oil over medium-high heat to about 350°F. While oil heats, combine powdered sugar, tahini, honey, and lemon juice in a small bowl. Whisk together to form a smooth consistency, then set aside.

Scoop a golf ball-sized portion of batter into oil, using two spoons to scrape batter cleanly. Fry 3-4 to fritters at a time, cooking until golden brown on one side, about two minutes, then gently flipping to cook other side. Transfer to a paper towel-lined baking sheet to drain.

Repeat with remaining batter. To serve, drizzle with tahini icing. penn appétit

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Crafting the Perfect Cheese Board

BY PENN APPÉTIT STAFF PHOTO BY ALEXIS MASINO

Goat Cheese

As the name implies, goat cheese is made from goat’s milk. It is one of the more divisive cheeses since most people either love it or hate it. Goat cheese ranges in flavor from mild to funky, and they are a popular holidayseason favorite. They have a soft, creamy texture and earthy flavor. Goat cheese is versatile and pairs well with both sweet dried fruits and more savory toasts.

Embrace goat cheese! It can have a strong flavor but it will add its signature zest to your cheese board.

Soft Cheese

Soft cheeses encompass a massive category of cheese, including the ever-popular Brie. They can be made from many types of dairy, whether that be cow, sheep, or goat. Like Brie, most soft cheeses are encased in a ring of mold, called the rind. As gross as it sounds, the mold on soft cheese is eaten, with its flavor largely dependent on the ingredients used and its manufacturing and aging environment.

When planning to serve it, it is best to take it out of the refrigerator about an hour before eating, thus allowing it to come to room temperature for ideal texture and irresistible creaminess. Perhaps most importantly, however, the warmer temperature of the cheese will allow any subtleties in flavor—earthiness, grassiness, nuttiness, smokiness, etc.—to better come through. Often stronger in flavor (and especially smell) than harder cheeses and less well known, ask your cheesemonger for a suggestion on cheeses based on particular tastes or pairings. Look for labels from small producers making cheese with local ingredients.

Savory Accompaniments

Some cheeses err on the less salty side of things, instead tasting much sweeter. To balance these and craft the perfect bite, try adding something savory—seedy mustard, briny green olives, and charcuterie are some of our favorites. A high-quality prosciutto pairs beautifully with smoky gouda, and nuts and olives go well with fresh, unaged cheeses which often have sweeter notes.

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Fresh Cheese

Cheese in its youngest, purest state, fresh cheese is appreciated for its graceful simplicity of form and flavor. Because its production is accelerated with starter cultures instead and consequently isn’t aged, it comes out of production ready-to-eat and without a rind. A gooey mozzarella such as burrata, a grilled halloumi, a crumbly feta, a spreadable mascarpone, or a creamy ricotta spread make a great addition to any cheese board. Try pairing your fresh cheeses with a crunchier or chewier side, such as dried fruits, walnuts, or some thin crackers or toast.

Bread & Crackers

How else are you supposed to eat all that cheese?

Sweet Accompaniments

Hard Cheese

Hard cheeses are generally older cheeses, aged to develop complex flavors and textures and often a rind. They come in many different forms and flavors including tangy cheddars, savory smoky goudas, nutty Swiss, funky Pecorino Romano or Parmigiano Reggiano, and creamy Manchego. Firm and ranging from mild to strong in taste, these cheeses pair well with sweet and sticky sides like dried fruit, jam, and honey as well as light savory crackers that provide a contrast in texture.

Jams, seasonal fruit or berries, dried fruits, and even honey all help balance the perfect cheese board with their sweetness. Think about pairing sweet snacks with particularly salty cheeses for contrast.

Consider the the classic pairing of salty-sweet, and match the sweetness of the jam or fruit with the saltiness of an aged cheese.

Remember, a cheese board should be about the cheese, but it shouldn’t be too one-note!

Try a Brie with fig jam, goat cheese with dried apricots, or manchego with fresh pears.

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On Saturdays, I am a Carnivore 16

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“High heat.

Pan tossing like a pro.

Charred food.

My parents certainly aren’t fans.”

BY XANDER GOTTFRIED PHOTO BY ERICA XIN AND MINNA ZHENG My first hour in the professional kitchen, I’m told the hotel pan full of short ribs was ready. Tasked with taking them out of the oven, was, I thought, something I could handle.

Jaws agape, the smell of its last meal is pure beef. It is an aroma at once cloying and meaty, but mostly pervaded by the smell of fat, by the sixth sense that translucent globules would soon stream through blood vessels and inevitably jam millimeters from the heart.

The insides whirr, sending waves of heat gushing over my face, now surely coated with a sheen of sweat and grease. Reaching in, I pull out the hotel pan.

Suddenly: burning liquid streams down my legs. Wonderment and panic climb as 275-degree Fahrenheit oil courses down around me. No matter, lesson learned—shorty pans are filled to the brim with fat. Later, I pour out the oil through a fine-mesh sieve for tomorrow’s batch. 22 quarts of filtered oil later, a fist-sized mass of black, beefy particulates remains. My tame side shrieks, aghast and disgusted.

Eating the short ribs is like biting into a piece of the best chocolate imaginable. The luscious mouthfeel coats my gullet with a reminiscent sensuality. Down my throat drip the first sweet drops, precious, unexpected, and expressive of more to come. As the aroma moves up my nose, an atavistic desire takes hold—I’m no longer the biochemistry-major undergrad but an instinctual creature yearning for the clutches of familiarity.

Meat used to be one of my favorite meals, back before I was cooking. My

mom would fry up mini cheesy sliders and I would easily, innocently, down two or three. Always carrots on the side. Thankful though I was for those sliders, those meals now seem plain and dull. Gently browned meat and an almost-cooked-through-interior? Why eat that when I’ve learned the ways of high heat, dark brown crust, and a blood-dripping center? I feel like I’m finally coming in to my element, growing into the cook I’ve wanted to be.

Conflicted as I am about restaurant life and the diet it entails, I’m cooking more courageously—dangerously—at home. High heat. Pan tossing like a pro.

Charred food. My parents certainly aren’t fans. I’m caught tossing greens in an extremely hot pan with oil, and as the pan tilts, the stove ignites the suspended oil for a moment or so. What’s normal for the restaurant, my mom tries to remind me, is hazardous here.

I’m searing pork chops and the same thing happens. Flames arc around the meat as I turn up the heat even further, hunting for that dark, even char and golden-brown crust. Amid screams of, “You’re going to burn the house down!” perhaps I realize that I’m losing control. Instead of learning to cook for the diner, for the place, for the time, I’m blindly rushing into something more and more berserk. What happened to balance, to keeping the restaurant at the restaurant and the home at home?

Pizza night shows me how far I’ve fallen. Great pizza, in many humble opinions, requires very high temperature, which means turning up the oven all the way. I twirl the dough in my hands like an almost-professional (I’ve had lots of practice—my brother maintains pizza is the last food I’ve yet to execute after two botched attempts), add

my toppings, and slide it into the oven.

After I cook the first two, we take them outside. I leave the oven on because there are two more to cook.

A few minutes later, we glance into the kitchen and can barely see anything—smoke clouds the room as carbonized food particles clog our throats and burn our eyes as we rush inside to fling open windows. The culprit? Cheese that had dripped onto the oven floor and completely incinerated.

I think it finally hits me—home is no industrial kitchen, where exhaust systems whorl with wildy more horsepower. I realized I needed restraint.

On a recent Saturday near the end of service, Chef hands me a couple quarts of steak scraps, asking me to make burgers for the staff. Thrilled, I grind the meat, form the patties, and then, on four ripping hot skillets at once, I cook them, smashburger style. Though great cooks, my parents might—would—be horrified. I might well have been too, a year ago. Smoke erupts from the skillets as the meat takes on an even char.

Tilting the pan ever so slightly as I go to flip the patties, fire ignites and my hands weave delicately amidst a cage of flame. I reach back in to lay over the cheese.

On his way out of the kitchen as I start the second batch, Chef jokingly asks me not to burn down the kitchen.

Pizza night in my mind’s eye, perhaps I falter for a second, my hand feinting towards the knob to turn down the heat. But I don’t. I know where I am, what I’ve learned. I’m at the restaurant, not home. On Saturdays, I remind myself, I am a carnivore. I can handle the fire. My primeval self and I are one.

Just don’t put me on meat station yet—then I might burn down the kitchen. penn appétit

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Becoming a Chef

BY RACHEL PROKUPEK PHOTOS BY ALICE DENG AND LEINA BETZER This summer, I quit my office job in Philadelphia to work in a kitchen in Beirut.

I moved on a whim, recruited by a culinary school friend who is the head chef of one of the top restaurants in the city—Baron. I honestly thought I’d never return to a kitchen again after attending Le Cordon Bleu, because I 18

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never believed I could be a Chef. A Chef, to me, is someone who worked her way up through the ranks of the kitchen, putting in years of work to earn the special title. By my own definition, I am certainly not a Chef. My time in Beirut, though, changed my definition.

Moving to work in Beirut was hard, lonely, and one of the best experiences of my life. I found solace in the kitchen, returning to a life where my schedule was nocturnal and my hands were constantly dry and calloused. I couldn’t get enough.

Working in a kitchen is exhilarating and exhausting, and something drew me back—this time, to Lebanon.

An open kitchen at Baron allowed us to interact with our customers and front of house staff, dance to music (the Her Tape #1 album, on repeat), and serve brave diners the experimental dishes we developed right before service. It was an English-speaking kitchen, but I quickly picked up the colloquial Arabic phrases used by the team throughout the night. My nickname quickly became

“sou sou,” and every night before the start of service, Raja would say “Sou sou, ma khallini jen.” Don’t make me crazy tonight, Rachel! I asked them about different Lebanese ingredients and how to use them; my new favorite snack became tahini mixed with carob molasses as a sweet, nutty spread for bread. Baron was the restaurant of my dreams, hidden on Pharaon Street in the Mar Mickael neighborhood of Beirut.

Who knew something so good could be somewhere I thought I’d never go.

Baron is run by a madman-scientistChef Tommy with curly gray hair and thick-rimmed glasses. A CanadianGreek expat, he never bothered to learn Arabic over the 15 or so years he has been in Beirut. He called everyone “Chef,” even if they didn’t work in the kitchen.

The diners were Chefs, too, like the BBC reporter who had just returned from Syria. “How was it over there, Chef!” he asked. I loved the fact that Tommy made everyone a Chef. It gave everyone so much power and confidence, including myself.

I was working 6 days a week on the line, prepping ingredients and plating dishes. I prepared all of the pastries and served them at night. I experimented with new dishes for the menu and met the most interesting diners sitting right in front of me. International journalists, political consultants, and spies (or so Tommy and I thought—he boldly asked, and they quickly denied).

The dishes were just as bold as Tommy: a whole head of cauliflower with tahini and pomegranates; citrusroasted carrots; crispy pork belly bacon with sesame chutney; côte de boeuf with miso butter; halloumi cheese with citrus and pistachios. It was a gem within Beirut’s crazy streets. Lebanese flavors, elevated to the trendy-chic dishes I had dreamt of when thinking about Beirut and the “new” Middle East.

The desserts were even better. Baron had a small dessert menu, all displayed on the counter in front of guests. Piles of freshly-baked cream puffs, chocolate cake, and the most beautiful baklava I’ve ever seen. Baked like a pie with a golden, flaky crust, glistening with syrup. It was almost like love at first sight—I knew I had to make it.

“Chef, we’re making baklava together today, aren’t we!” It was as if he had read my mind.

Side by side, we layered filo dough, butter, nuts, and then more filo. And repeat. And repeat. Chef Tommy showed me how to drop the filo into the pan so that it bunched in the center; wrinkles are good, I learned, as it helps every layer of the pastry crisp up. Instead of using pastry brushes to brush butter over the filo, we used them as spoons, almost, to scoop up the melted butter to pour into the bunches of dough.

We pulled the baklava out of the oven in the middle of service. Everyone stopped and watched Tommy pour cold

“Chef, we’re making baklava together today, aren’t we!”

It was as if he had read my mind.

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sugar syrup over the pastry, watching it bubble up and soak into the baklava.

“Chef, you always pour cold syrup onto hot baklava or vice versa to soak up.

Never honey—my Greek grandmother would never allow it,” Tommy told me.

After that night, I was in charge of making baklava. Every few days I would come into Baron early, prep my station with portioned-out nuts, butter, and filo dough, and begin to layer. I experimented with syrups flavored with citrus, cinnamon, and cloves. I played with the oven settings to control the browning of the filo. I got better and better over the next month, and the dessert was selling faster than ever. Chef Tommy was proud, and I finally started to believe in myself. “Good work, Chef.”

Perhaps Tommy called everyone Chef to make people feel happy, or confident, or important. Maybe it was just a funny habit he couldn’t shake off. I think Tommy wanted to build a team at Baron that felt like they were really making an impact at the restaurant, and felt like they had a voice in the kitchen. Even the diners; they were just as important to building a successful restaurant. My definition of “Chef” changed because of Tommy; to me, a Chef is now someone who is in charge of her station and makes a difference in the kitchen and at the restaurant as a whole. A Chef is someone who has a voice and feels confident in what they serve customers. I certainly felt important at Baron, and I left feeling like I made a difference, however big or small.

Baron was a gift. In the heart of Beirut, Tommy’s restaurant served some of the best food in the Middle East. Now back in Philadelphia, I carry with me an experience that changed the way I think about myself in the kitchen. I now cook to Her Tape #1, I make baklava, and I finally feel like a Chef.

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WALNUTALMOND BAKLAVA RECIPE BY BARON RESTAURANT Baklava 450g filo pastry, frozen 14 tbs. (200g) butter, melted 1 cup (200g) vegetable oil 4 cups (450g) walnuts, pulsed 1 ¼ cups (150g) slivered, unsalted almonds Baklava Syrup 3 cups sugar 1 ½ cups water Optional: orange and lemon slices, cinnamon sticks, cloves Thaw out filo dough about 30 minutes before preparing the baklava. Do not take it out of its packaging, as you do not want the pastry to dry out.

First, toast slivered almonds in a 350°F oven for 3-5 minutes, until slightly golden. In a food processor, pulse walnuts until finely chopped. Mix nuts together in a bowl and portion out into 6 even bowls (100g each, if you have a kitchen scale).

Next, heat butter and oil together in a saucepan until completely melted. Divide into 8 even bowls (50g each). You can also eyeball each bowl, but measuring is more precise.

Open up filo pastry and carefully unfold onto a clean surface. It should be completely thawed. In an 8-inch round pan (cast iron works) or a glass casserole dish, layer 4 pieces of filo, each piece overhanging a side of the dish so the edges are completely covered, and you can’t see the bottom of the dish.

Take a pastry brush, and brush on a large layer of the butter and oil mixture. Take one 100g portion of nuts and sprinkle evenly over the pastry. Next, take one single sheet of filo, and drop into the dish. It should

be wrinkled, but completely covering the nuts. Brush half a bowl of butter and oil over the filo. Take another single piece of filo and drop it over again.

Brush on the rest of the portion of oil. Take another 100g portion of nuts and sprinkle over evenly.

Remember, wrinkles in the pastry are good, it helps the baklava puff up in the oven!

Repeat this process: one portion nuts, one layer of filo, half a portion of butter and oil, another layer of filo, the rest of the portion of butter, repeat. It looks like there will be a lot of butter and oil—this is good. Repeat until you layer your last portion of nuts (there should be 6 layers of nuts). At this point, instead of adding a new layer of filo, fold over the 4 overhanging pieces from the first layer. Make sure the nuts are completely covered. Brush on more butter and oil.

Take one last piece of filo, and place it nicely over the top, with no wrinkles. Tuck the extra pastry into the sides of the dish. Brush on the remaining oil and butter.

Let the butter solidify onto the pastry, and preheat the oven to 340°F. Pre-cut the baklava with a sharp knife before placing into the oven. Make clean cuts into pie slices or diamonds, being careful not to drag the dough. Bake for 90 minutes, until golden.

While the baklava is baking, prepare the syrup. Bring water and sugar to a boil. If you want to add flavor, boil with lemon, orange, cinnamon sticks, or cloves. Hold at a boil for 1 minute, and then remove from the heat. Let the syrup cool completely, either in the fridge or freezer.

Once the baklava is finished, remove from the oven and immediately pour the cold syrup on, letting it bubble and sink in. Let the pastry sit for about 30 minutes until set, then serve.

Guy Fieri The Man, The Myth, The Meme

BY ABIGAIL SUGARMAN ILLUSTRATION BY JESSI OLARSCH This summer, while doing my daily channel surfing on the treadmill, something bizarre caught my eye: Guy Fieri, in full diving gear, swimming with the sharks in the Bahamas off of the USS Flavortown. (As it turns out, Guy Fieri was asked by the Discovery Channel to host a special episode as a part of Shark Week.) “Weird,” I thought, “but cool.” And as I stayed on the treadmill just long enough to watch the show to conclusion, I began to realize that Guy Fieri, Mayor of Flavortown, USA, is actually a pretty Cool dude.

Now, before going further, I want to clarify what I mean by Cool with a capital—C. The Cool that I’m referring to is a product of popular culture, a rebellion against the capitalization of anything created, from music to fashion to literature. The Cool cannot be manu-

factured. The Cool is fleeting. The Cool recognizes the Cool.

The Cool which permeates today’s youth culture has a proclivity for the odd and the absurd; flip through any meme page, streetwear catalogue, or Soundcloud rapper lyrics and you’ll find all the evidence you’ll need. However, in the food world, the departure from the classic and perfected can be a tricky move for young, aspiring chefs to make.

Guy Fieri has been a pioneer in this aspect, not necessarily in the food he makes and the dishes he tastes, but in the way he sells it to us. Fieri uses his devil-may-care quirkiness to lure his audience and customers to eat classic American staples at his own restaurants all around the country or at the diner, drive-in, or dive just around

the corner. His passion for good food matches the intensity of the flames on his bowling shirt, the spikiness of his platinum hair, and his hatred for eggs.

Fieri uses his eccentricity to shine light on food culture in the United States, and people can’t seem to get enough of him—particularly young people.

The youth have taken notice of and fallen in love with Guy’s idiosyncrasies, and we have claimed him as an icon of our culture. Now, he can be found as a halloween costume, a drinking game, and a recurring meme. And despite often being mocked for his odd persona, many of those poking fun at him are coming from a place of admiration and (the tenet of postmodernism) irony. In our search for beauty within the bizarre, we have found the Cool in Guy Fieri. penn appétit

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The Right Amount of Ripe

BY GRACE LEAHY ILLUSTRATIONS BY REESE BERMAN

To pick out the freshest corn, check to see if the hairs are still damp— if so, the corn has been recently cleaned and put out. Green/white hairs and tightly-packed rows of kernels are also great indicators.

With mangos, smell the stemend for sweetness. Next, pressing your thumb gently into the side should make a slight dent.

This means it’s ready to eat!

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Morello-family produce selection is an ancestral and shameless art.

A grouchy-looking woman watches (unblinkingly) from the cash register as Mom lifts a full-size watermelon to her ear. The sky is cloudless and the streetside market is crowded, and out of that crowd the woman is fixated on what she’s identified as the greatest threat to her wares—us. I notice the woman's chest rise and fall measuredly, almost therapeutically, as she imagines the catastrophic slipup that could very well end in a watermelon-meets-cement explosion below. She organizes and reorganizes the boxed lemons beside her. A distraction.

"See?" Mom tells me, pounding on the side of the melon. "It sounds hollow.

That's how you can tell it's a good one." Upon seeing the price, she cringes, returning it to the bin.

We begin to leave, but before the cashier can get too comfortable, Mom notices a melon hidden in the back. "Oh! This yellow spot riiight here," she points, "is a great indicator.” Grinning, she concedes that it’s “too perfect to resist." Before I know it, the watermelon and a ten dollar bill are rolling into my arms. Mom tilts her head toward the cashier, to whom I smile sheepishly.

Even though it often solicits suspicious glances, taking the time to pick out produce that’s just the right amount of ripe is always worth the trouble. Below I’ve compiled some of my favorite tricks for making sure produce is full and flavorful.

Watermelon selection is a handson ordeal. Pick up the watermelon and look for a big, yellow “field spot” on the bottom; if the spot is white, the melon wasn’t able to fully ripen prior to picking. Light brown webbing on the sides indicates contact points of pollination, and more pollination means sweeter watermelon. While you’re at it, slap or knock on the side. A hollow sound means it’s nice and ripe.

It’s pretty common knowledge that avocados move from green to black, but a lesser-known trick is to break off the stem. If it’s a gold color underneath, your avocado should be perfect. Another tip: use your palm to check for softness—this way you won’t bruise it.

A popular urban myth is that the center leaf of a pineapple will pull right off when ripe. While not a perfect determiner, the leaves should give a bit once the fruit has softened. Pick it up and smell the bottom—if it’s sweet and heavy, you’re good to go.

Try to avoid strawberries with dry leaves unless you’re ready to eat them in the next day or so.

For the best flavor, steer clear of white or green tops; these were likely picked before fully ripe!

Congratulations on your

BY ALICE GOULDING PHOTO BY MARIA MURAD Congratulations! If you’re reading this, you’ve either recently acquired, or are considering getting, a cast iron skillet.

Either way, you’ve decided to make a foray into a more authentic—albeit a bit more demanding—method for cooking.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that purchasing my own cast iron skillet changed my life. For years, I watched my dad cook with and care for his; he’d always sing its praises, reminding me that it was the “only” pan that could truly distribute heat evenly and that the fact that it only becomes non-stick through repeated use connects the cook with the tool. So, when I was perusing a yard sale one misty fall morning and stumbled upon a wellworn skillet (whose owner was willing to part with it for under 10 dollars!), I pounced.

But having the enterprise to want a cast iron skillet is one thing; cooking and caring for it is another. Here’s what to expect from your skillet—along with what it expects from you.

For starters, you’ve got to buy one.

Personally, I think there’s something to be said for purchasing yours second-hand, like I did, or letting an older relative pass theirs down to you. It means your skillet will already be broken in, saving you an intensive seasoning session (explained below). That being said, buying one new is totally fine, provided you’re willing to put in the effort to season and season again.

Cast Iron Pan!

My dad has had the same skillet since 1996 and has brought it with him to three different countries—this is more than a pan, it is an investment in your future.

Once you’ve gotten ahold of your pan, you have to season it. Essentially, this means lubricating it with neutral oil and baking it at very high temperatures to form a nearly non-stick surface. Seasoning has nothing to do with spices, and is nowhere near as intimidating as it might initially seem. First, wash out your skillet by sprinkling liberally with kosher salt and washing with water. Salt is corrosive enough to get anything unwanted off your pan but not strong enough to harm the skillet itself. Preheat your oven to 350℉, and put your skillet in for 10 minutes to completely dry it off.

Take it out and turn your oven up as high as it goes—for me that’s 500℉.

Then you’re going to coat it in coldpressed, unrefined flaxseed oil, but any neutral flavored oil, like canola or vegetable, will do. Again, this doesn’t have to be a daunting process; just try to get every square inch of the pan covered— and yes, that means the outside and the handle too.

You’re going to rub as much of it into the pan as possible using a paper towel. There shouldn’t be any excess, so you can use the paper to absorb any pooled oil. Now, put your skillet back in the oven—this time for an hour. You’re one coat in, but that’s not going to be enough. You’re going to want to repeat this oiling, blotting, and baking process

at least four or five more times, letting the pan cool for an hour in between each session. This process polymerizes the oil, turning into a new compound that protects that pan (and your food) and makes it nearly non-stick. Yes, seasoning is a day-long event, but you only need to do it once a year. Cast iron skillets are an investment.

Caring for your skillet is simple— and brief. When you’re done using it, use a cleaning brush to scrub it under warm water. Don’t leave it to soak in water for longer than a few minutes as it’ll erode the oil layers over time.

And whatever you do, do not use soap on your pan ever, under any circumstances. This will undo your afternoon of seasoning, and perhaps even damage the pan. I once came home to see my skillet sitting in a loaded dishwasher that my roommate was seconds away from running. Though I was able to stop her before it was too late, my heart still skipped several beats. Don’t be that roommate—treat your pan, or your friend’s pan, with the utmost care.

Finally, let’s talk cooking with your pan. The biggest and best selling point of cast iron is how versatile it is. I’ve seen my dad fry eggs, sear meat, and grill asparagus in his; last Thanksgiving, I roasted brussel sprouts, made cornbread, and baked a pie in mine.

The possibilities are pretty endless.

So go buy a pan. Season it. Feel it.

Be on with it. And then cook with it. A cast-iron roast chicken is a great place to start—you’ll love the sear and the crispy skin. penn appétit

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AN

UNPHởGETTABLE MEAL ARTICLE BY ANNA DUAN AND JASON PAK PHOTOS BY PETER RIBEIRO

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“You can write whatever you want,” Johnny tells us when we ask if we can write an article about his restaurant, Café Saigon.

But it was a busy day, so he told us he could only give us a few minutes to ask him about the restaurant and its food.

Sitting at 43rd and Spruce, Café Saigon is low-key and homey, with a few paintings of cranes and tigers and newspaper reviews framed on the wall.

Mini bonsai trees line the windowsills.

On the exterior, white posters advertise the various flavors of bubble tea on offer, and an A4-sized paper with the words “CASH ONLY” is posted above a blue and orange ATM machine. On the chilly Friday afternoon that we went, customers dotted the restaurant, chatting over steaming bowls of phở, the

classic Vietnamese noodle soup.

We’re here on the hunt for authentic, affordable, vietnamese food and an escape from the homogenous fast-casual scene of the Penn bubble. In this quiet corner in West Philly, we don’t see the usual instagramming college students or hand-calligraphed chalkboards lining the pavement. An old couple passes by the restaurant with a dog. The fading afternoon sun illuminates the stained glass in the church across the street.

Johnny won’t tell us his specific position at the restaurant, but he says he’s worked there for over fifteen years.

We believe him. As customers wander in, they yell, “Hey, Johnny!” He greets many in return by first name. He estimates that ninety percent of their customers are from the neighborhood and have been coming for years, simply asking for “the usual.” Since the day Café Saigon opened, they haven’t changed their menu once.

Gesturing at the framed five star reviews on the wall, he nonchalantly tells us that Café Saigon doesn’t adver tise, and he doesn’t care for reviews, although they print some when they get good ones. “Anybody can post online,” he says, “it’s just their opinion. I penn appétit

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don’t believe in websites. I could call my cousin right now and ask him to write something on our yelp page if I wanted.” And sometimes, he said, customers in a bad mood leave negative reviews without any clear reason, but none of it bothers him.

“Some people like good food, some people don’t like good food,” he says.

Johnny brings us a pot of fragrant wheat tea, leaving briefly to take another table’s order. He then ducks into a small kitchen separated from the dining area by panels of frosted glass and white tile. Moments later, he returns, arms lined with our food: a sizable

bowl of phở with a heaping plate of bean sprouts and basil for Jason, bowls of juicy lemongrass beef on vermicelli and broken rice for Anna and Peter.

As Jason squeezes red chili paste, sriracha, and hoisin into his beef broth, Johnny tells us, “we serve traditional Vietnamese food,” but some people get phở and ignore all the toppings: bean sprouts, basil, lime, chili pepper, and the sauce basket, or they pick out things from the soup like beef tripe and tendon. “Then it’s not really traditional.” He shakes his head. “But everyone eats things their own way and that’s their choice. So whether it’s

traditional or not depends on the customer.”

The lemongrass beef is slightly sticky and sweet, yet complex and tangy due to the lemongrass. Smoky, savory beef slices pair perfectly with the cool vermicelli underneath that is seasoned with a sweet rice vinegar. Interspersed in the glorious bowl of meat and carbs are small shreds of refreshing cilantro, chopped peanuts, and the sweet-and-sour crunch of pickled julienned carrots.

The bowl of phở, when placed on the table, shoots a large plume of steam into your face along with an over-

“Some People Like Good Food,

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whelming mixture of aromas. With cilantro, lemon, chili, and many other spices simmering in the near-boiling broth, the phở offers every taste that the human tongue can perceive: sweetness, saltiness, bitterness, sourness, and umami. Overflowing with rice noodles, bean sprouts, and various cuts of meat, phở certainly isn’t a “pretty” dish. But it isn’t supposed to be. It’s the supreme culinary hangover cure. It’s filling, hearty, and unabashedly “diner.” Its appeal resides in the fact that no matter where you go for phở, it cannot be anything but home-cooked— the kind of home-cooked that sends

anybody who grew up eating phở back to his or her childhood when eating phở on a chilly Saturday morning was so satisfying that no other meal was needed for the rest of the day.

After we’ve scraped the last dregs of rice noodles from our bowls, Johnny arrives with the bill, and we ask him if Café Saigon will ever expand. He quickly shakes his head, explaining that he would need to hire new employees and teach them how to prepare each dish. Currently, Johnny’s staff consist of either family members or close friends who’ve all grown up cooking and enjoying the dishes served at the

restaurant. While he admits that the restaurant has seen a slight slowdown in the past few years, he indicates that he prefers to keep his business small and family-run. Johnny’s desire to maintain comfort and manageability at Café Saigon results in a restaurant that is humble and authentic—one that serves an absolutely mouth-watering bowl of phở. The quality of food, in conjunction with the comfortable environment, makes Café Saigon a haven for those who enjoy Vietnamese food—a place that we’ll definitely be coming back to soon.

Some People Don’t Like Good Food.”

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Notes from a Kombucha Sommelier

BY ZIHAN KABIR PHOTOS BY GINY JANG AND JUSTINE DE JESUS

The Inspired Brews Fermentary is a shop located in Center City that produces and sells small-batch kombucha, a fermented tea made with cultures of yeast and bacteria. With a rotating set of diverse flavors, the shop is a testament to how far the trendy drink has come in recent years.

Salted Watermelon

The Doctor

Blueberry Mojito

Immunity

Orange Hibiscus

Ingredients: watermelon, dates, sea salt

Ingredients: apples, lemon, ginger root

Ingredients: blueberries, lime, mint

Ingredients: elderberries, hibiscus, echinacea

Ingredients: oranges, hibiscus, dates

Abrupt but refreshing, the Salted Watermelon kombucha begins with a sharp contrast between salty and sweet and culminates in a satisfying finish. A sense of cool lingers, leaving one loose and relaxed.

As the name suggests, The Doctor carries a restorative fragrance, but also has by a crisp and robust sweetness. Those requiring something with which to ease a cold should look no further.

The Blueberry Mojito feels like a slap in the face—but in a good way.

The acidic and honeyed flavors come together in a harmonious blend that will leave you feeling energized.

This herbal kombucha’s tongue-tingling nature is an unexpected but pleasant surprise. With a penetrating flavor, Immunity has a floral and slightly astringent disposition.

The Orange Hibiscus kombucha is a delicious burst of sweet and sour, underscored by a hint of tart. Its uneven and complex texture keeps the experience interesting throughout.

Key notes: fruity, cool

Key notes: rejuvenating, savory

Key notes: intense, refreshing

Key notes: pungent, tart

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Key notes: tangy, tropical

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“

Finally, the wild card: bitter lemon vinegar pie.

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”

The Ex-Pastry Chefs Making Local, Small-Batch Vinegar You Need to Know About

BY XANDER GOTTFRIED PHOTO BY ALAN JINICH Isaiah Billington doesn’t look like the traditional farmers’ market vendor.

He’s tall and lanky with a thin beard and cheerful, glowing eyes. Sure, he could be a farmer; then you see what he’s selling at his table. At the Headhouse Farmers’ Market at 2nd and Lombard, Isaiah is only one of a growing number of vendors that are not farmers themselves, but rather chefs and cooks making high-quality foodstuffs from the very farmers surrounding them. At Headhouse, there’s small batch-ice cream made with fresh milk and in-season fruit. Bread made with just-milled grains sits next to fresh pasta made with eggs from the farm stand behind you. Or refreshing, chilled soup using the abundance of local veg. Isaiah? He sells vinegar.

On his table are five little glass bowls filled with different vinegars, as vibrant in color as in taste. For the brave or culinarily-minded, he’ll fill up a little tasting cup with vinegar and you can take it back like a shot. For those more wary of chugging straight acid, he has cucumber slices available for dipping. But these vinegars really are best enjoyed straight, where flavors like strawberry, ramp, or wildflower honey vinegar can really shine.

After trying the aronia berry, molasses, and black garlic flavors, I fall in love with the pleasantly pungent and flavorful vinegar. I need to know more.

“Artisanal production is one in which there’s a depth of knowledge about the process such that you can tailor it to variable inputs,” Isaiah tells me, capturing the mentality behind Keepwell Vinegar, the company he started with his partner Sarah Conezio.

That means using product and produce

when it is ready and only when it is ready. Ugly heirlooms? Make tomato vinegar. Unsellable peaches due to a spring hailstorm? Press them for juice to make peach vinegar.

Before I learn any more, I discover first-hand how truly committed Isaiah is to supporting small time, local business, whether that be a nearby farm or a small coffee shop. After admitting that he feels he needs to donate to the economy, he brings me into a coffee shop and buys a coffee to go in his metal water bottle. (I just bought a pound of eggplant and last-of-the-season peaches at the market, so I think I’m covered). We chat for nearly ten minutes about my own work in a genetics laboratory—it’s clear Isaiah is not just a chef cooking because he loves food.

I think it’s his curiosity, clearly on display, that has helped him develop such a concept. He is about something more intellectual, really wanting to know everything about his product and how he can help in any way possible.

“We want to grow as much as we can to the extent that we can continue to support the exigencies of small, responsible growers, and that means we have to resist the standardization of our ingredients,” he tells me. Again, it’s clear how much he and Keepwell care.

Isaiah and Sarah weren’t always making vinegar. Before Keepwell, Isaiah was the pastry chef at Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore, MD, a restaurant with “a super high commitment to local sourcing, down to the oil they use to fill the deep fryers,” he says. After Sarah took over as head pastry chef, they were able to take on more projects for the restaurant. Thanks to Woodberry’s push for local sourcing, they learned to

pickle, can, and ferment a whole host of fresh produce. After years of working this closely with local product, they dialed in their relationships with their farmers, knowing, for example, what kind of tomatoes would be grown, when they would be picked, and at what stage they’d be best for a particular product. Those kinds of relationships have informed what Keepwell does: they work exclusively with farmers to develop the best possible vinegar while supporting local, small-business agriculture.

The vinegar company wasn’t born overnight, even if the farmer-chef relationships and the ethics behind it were there. Back at Woodberry, Isaiah explained that it got increasingly difficult using “regular” vinegars—ones where sellers didn’t necessarily “have the same accountability with regard to the provenance of their inputs.” How could they justify using those vinegars in conjunction with the other products they had spent years refining and learning to make themselves?

To resolve this moral and culinary dilemma, Isaiah and the staff started making their own vinegars, kimchis, and misos, exploring all sorts of fermented foods. But the problem was in the space. Isaiah explains that restaurants can really only succeed “to the extent that they are able to use square footage in a high efficiency way to move capital in and out really quickly,” yet vinegar takes up lots of space for lots of time.

To explain this, Isaiah gives me a brief primer on vinegar, a dilution of acetic acid in water at an acidity of about 5 percent. The slow way, the way (see “Keepwell Vinegar” on page 33) penn appétit

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Chef Ian’s Recipe Number 12: Pasta

BY IAN MCCORMACK

Cooking a full meal always seems like such a momentous task in our hyperactive and overworked society. Recipes that are both healthy and tasty always seem too difficult or time-consuming to try. Most of all, cooking is scary, and the fear of messing up and ending up without any food at all is a constant worry for those who attempt to provide for themselves. I’ve decided to share one of my personal favorite recipes along with a few notes that might shed some light on the subtler side of cooking. It should be perfect for beginners looking to get into cooking or even veterans looking for a fresh dish.

PASTA ALLA DANTE INFERNO PARADISO TERRA FIRMA Pasta Alla Dante Inferno Paradiso Terra Firma is the quintessential pasta dish that can provide the nuance and sophistication to any dinner party, potluck, or gala with friends. There is a flavor for everyone in the startlingly refreshing bite of Pasta Alla Dante Inferno Paradiso Terra Firma. With the light, earthy tones of standard pasta and the fiery power of a powerful stove distilled into the dish as it cooks, Pasta Alla Dante Inferno Paradiso Terra Firma melts into a paradise of flavor that is simply unforgettable.

1 3-quart saucepot1 1 medium-sized sieve2 1 gas-powered3 stovetop4 2.5 quarts of Poland Spring natural spring water5 1 crab-themed oven mitt6 1 nylon spaghetti server7 1 pound of Ronzoni8 Pasta (suggested shapes: Angel Hair, Capellini, Cavatappi, Ditalini, Elbows, Farfalle, Fettuccine, Linguine, Penne, Penne Rigati, Rigatoni, Rotelle, Rotini, Spaghetti, Thin Linguine, Thin Spaghetti, Vermicelli, Ziti, Ziti Rigati)9 1 26-ounce container of Morton Iodized Salt10 1 tablespoon of extra-virgin olive oil11 32

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Cooking time: 10-20 minutes12 1.

Fill 3-quart saucepot with Poland Spring natural spring water.13 Place saucepot on gas-powered stove and turn burner to high.

2. Add Morton salt to water.14 3. Lid should be on saucepot.

4. Observe pot15 until water is at a rolling boil.16 5. Place pasta in pot.17 Stir immediately. Set timer for Al Dente time18 recommended on box.19 6. Stir every 1-2 minutes.20 7. When timer goes off, turn off stove.21 8. Strain pasta using sieve.22 9. Place pasta back in saucepot.23 10. Lightly24 pour olive oil into saucepot.25 Stir pasta using nylon spaghetti server.26 11. Eat.27

ENDNOTES 1 3.5 quart, 4-quart, 4.5-quart, 5-quart, 5.5-quart, and 6-quart saucepots may also be used. Pots over 6 quarts should not be used due to stalled testing on 6.6-quarts saucepots. Experimentation is not recommended.

Satisfaction not guaranteed.

2 Completely necessary 3 Electric, induction, downdraft, coil, and smooth-top stovetops may also be used. Experimentation is not recommended. Satisfaction not guaranteed.

4 Oftentimes stovetops come with groups of burners. If this is the case, use the largest burner.

5 I personally only used Poland Spring natural spring water, as it is from Maine (not Poland—shop local!) and thus infinitely cleaner than any other water. Any other types of water can be used, with the exceptions of toilet water, shower water, and Dasani. Experimentation is not recommended. Satisfaction not guaranteed.

6 Other themes of oven mitt are unacceptable. Experimentation is not recommended.

Satisfaction not guaranteed.

7 Experimentation is recommended. Satisfaction is guaranteed.

8 Ronzoni is the most superior brand of pasta. Other pasta brands may be used, but experimentation is not recommended. Satisfaction not guaranteed.

9 Other shapes of pasta should achieve a similar effect, but experimentation is not recommended. Satisfaction not guaranteed.

10 Morton Iodized Salt is the best salt. Experimentation is not recommended and may increase risk of goiters. Satisfaction not guaranteed.

11 You may replace this ingredient with one pound of unsalted butter. There is a slight risk of heart attack, obesity, depression, and addiction, so experimentation is not recommended. Such exorbitant amounts of butter means satisfaction is, however, very much guaranteed.

12 This depends on a wide variety of factors, including but not limited to cooking ability, amount of ingredients, degree of experimentation, stovetop BTUs (British Thermal Units), pot size, pasta shape, pasta brand, blood alcohol content, chef agility and mobility, number and skill of any sous chefs present, chance of precipitation, proximity of significant others, proximity of oven mitt to flame, and extent of consciousness.

13 Recycle water bottles by refilling them with tap water. This can be used for future meals, as it is still considered Poland Spring natural spring water by virtue of bottling.

14 This step is imperative. The salt allows the water to boil and reacts with the poisonous particles on the surface of the pasta, purifying the meal. Without salt, the water will broil instead of boil, and although you may be able to cook the pasta, it will be poisonous. Should you proceed with eating pasta cooked in unsalted water, you should expect to de in the next two to four weeks.

15 This may take several minutes longer than you observe the pot, so it is a good idea to stop observing the pot every once in a while to help speed up the process. Should you stop observing the pot too aggressively, you might encounter a phenomenon called overboiling—the water will rise up and pass through the lid, seeking to douse the flames below. If this happens, you may lose a little water, ut you shouldn’t worry as long as you then progress immediately to step 5.

16 A rolling boil is characterized by large bubbles rising to the surface of the water rapidly and in a large quantity.

17 You will have to take off the lid to put the pasta in the pot. It is recommended that you use the oven mitt, but it is not required. It is imperative that you take extra care with where you put the oven mitt after this step, as I know of a person who is definitely not me who may or may not have set a partic-

ularly prized crab-themed oven mitt on fire during this step.

18 Some prefer their pasta cooked more or less than this Al Dente recommendation. As the dish is Pasta Alla Paradiso Terra Firma, it is recommended you stick to Al Dente.

Any other cooking time will result in overcooked or undercooked pasta, which will be utterly disgusting.

19 When in doubt, follow the strict directives of the box. The box is always correct.

20 If possible, set a timer every minute to remind you to do this task. Make sure you do not accidentally reset your Al Dente time timer. It is recommended you check the timer every 10 seconds for maximum surety. If you do not stir sufficiently, pasta will stick to the sides of the pot and to other pieces of pasta and not cook as thoroughly.

21 Also turn off timer. If you do not, you will have slight risk of headache and hearing loss.

22 The sieve is helpful, but actually not completely necessary. (See note 2.) You can remove the water by putting the lid early entirely on the saucepot to block any stray pasta from escaping and tilt the pot to remove any excessive water. Variable results depending on the pasta shape.

23 The saucepot should not be on the same burner that was used to cook the pasta. If this is the case, you may fry some of your pasta, especially if you do not have the recommended gas stovetop. My recipe for fried pasta may be too dangerous to attempt until further testing has been finished.

24 You do not have to coat the entire saucepot in olive oil. Upon stirring, the wonderful fake-butter should be spread amongst the different components of the dish.

25 Do not use butter.

26 Recent scholarship on stirring techniques has recommended the older method of using a fork. You may try this, but it is not recommended. Satisfaction not guaranteed, and the entire dish may explode if the electrons attached to the fork react to the heated saucepot.

27 If you have followed all instructions exactly, carefully, and methodically, you should now be enjoying a good meal of your own creation. Good job! Not everyone can cook Pasta Alla Dante Inferno Paradiso Terra Firma. If you did not follow all instructions exactly, carefully, and methodically, you should now toss what is in your pot into the trash can and try again. If you are not satisfied with your meal, you did not follow these simple instructions exactly, carefully, and methodically enough.

(continued from “Keepwell Vinegar” on page 31)

Keepwell does it, is by converting sugar into alcohol using an anaerobic yeast driven fermentation. That alcohol is then seeded with acetic acid bacteria, which metabolizes the alcohol and produces vinegar. The primary flavor comes from the original sugar source, whether it be strawberry juice or rice.

It takes time for bacteria to metabolize the sugar and then the alcohol.

While Isaiah was learning more and more about vinegars, it became more impractical to make them in house at Woodberry. Something had to change.

So he and Sarah decided to focus full time on vinegar. Renovating a friends’ farm, they started Keepwell as a place to focus on artisanal, worthy vinegars and to build on their relationships with their farmers to utilize produce that otherwise may have been wasted.

A day in the life, I ask? “To be honest,” Isaiah replies, “it’s a whole lot of moving liquid around and monitoring it.” Gripping, I know. Say they get in a big batch of Concord grapes one day.

They’ll have a burst of activity processing the grapes, but then really they just let it sit. The bacteria just needs its time, and as long as it is maintained in the right conditions, it should produce.

Finally, I get to the question it seems like he’s been waiting for me to ask.

What can you actually do with vinegar, apart from making salad dressing?

Eagerly, he jumps up and walks over to his car trunk, where he pulls out a little grandma-style recipe book full of notecards. As he discusses a recipe and the thought process behind it, he passes me the card.

First, simple leeks vinaigrette with a basic vinegar and oil dressing. “But if you mess with the variables,” he says, “perhaps by adding tons of herbs and reducing the amount of oil and vinegar, you get a chimichurri,” a variation of a simple salsa verde. Then he tells me about playing with the fat: let’s make it butter, let’s make it warm, and now we have a warm browned butter vinaigrette that could be spooned over fish.

But breaking from the mold of vinaigrette, vinegar still has many applications. Both classic French poulet au vinaigre and Carolina-style barbecue are centered in vinegar. In both applications, cooking the meat in the vinegar not only seasons it, but the acid gets to the meat and alters the texture.

Next, the obvious choice is pickles.

Cucumber, yes, but Isaiah also has more interesting ideas up his sleeve—pickled mustard seeds, for example, with a caviar-like texture and consistency. No pickle can be better than the vinegar it was pickled in.

Finally, the wild card: bitter lemon vinegar pie. I’ll just leave you with that.

POULET AU VINAIGRE RECIPE BY KEEPWELL VINEGAR ½ stick butter 1 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced 1 4 lb chicken, cut into 8 pieces, or 8 chicken thighs flour, for dredging ¼ cup Keepwell Celery Leaf Vinegar ¼ chopped soft herbs (parsley, tarragon, basil, etc.) dash of cream Kosher salt and cracked black pepper Dredge chicken in a light flour coating. Meanwhile, melt butter over medium heat in a large skillet until it just starts to brown.

Add chicken, skin side down, and sliced onions. Let cook for about five minutes until golden brown.

Flip chicken, add the vinegar, and simmer on very low heat for 20-30 minutes until chicken is cooked through. Remove the chicken from the pan, and add the cream and herbs to the sauce. Season to taste, the serve over chicken.

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The City of Brewery Love

BY CAROLYN BARR PHOTOS BY CAROLYN BARR

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ARTICLE AND PHOTOS BY CAROLYN BARR

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Philadelphia; a city rich in history, Eagles pride, and craft beer—and what goes better with Philadelphia football than a beer brewed right in the the City of Brotherly Love? Here is our guide to five of Penn Appétit’s favorite Philadelphia breweries across

the city. Cheers!

1. Evil Genius Beer Company Fishtown Founded by two Villanova graduates in 2011, Evil Genius boasts the wildest of flavor combinations—we’re talking caramel macchiato porters, swedish fish milkshake IPAs, and bagel lagers.

Beers you couldn’t have come up with in your wildest dreams.

Flights are the best way to get a taste of what’s on draft here, and although you may not have come hungry, you’ll be eyeing the heaping plates of nachos and the buffalo chicken dip by the end of the night.

With kitschy, millennial-approved beer names like “#Adulting” and “Bye, Felicia!” and a colorful, photogenic beer garden beneath the El, Evil Genius is just begging to be your next Instagram post.

2. Dock Street Brewery West Philadelphia There are two things Dock Street Specializes in—pizza and beer. Founded in 1985, Dock Street calls itself Philadelphia’s first craft brewery and there is no arguing that they’ve been around the block. Swing by the Dock Street Brewpub nestled in a 110-year-old converted firehouse and dig into their Fig Jam pizza which you can watch bubbling to life n the wood-fired pizza oven located just behind the bar.

Around the corner is their newest addition, the Dock Street Cannery and Tasting Lounge, which was recently named Philadelphia Magazine’s Best New Bar, where you can enjoy a variety of exotic-sounding beer cocktails.

While Dock Street tends to keep it classy with their day-to-day rotating 36

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beer list consisting of the likes of Bohemian Pilsners and Rye IPAs, they’ve been known to get experimental with their beers in the wildest ways: including but not limited to a beer brewed with goat brains in honor of the TV show The Walking Dead, and a beer that was conditioned in a red wine barrel while being serenaded by the sounds of rap group Wu Tang Clan 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Keep your eyes peeled for more creative brews in rotation, Dock Street adds a couple new beers to their lineup every week.

3. Love City Brewing Company Callowhill The newest microbrewery to join the roster, Love City Brewing Company opened its chevron-flanked doors in the Callowhill neighborhood less thana year ago. Located in a former rail-parts factory, its close proximity to Union Transfer and Franklin Music Hall (formerly known as The Electric Factory) makes it the perfect spot to grab a pre-concert brew. Long wooden tables and a horseshoe shaped bar ensure that there’ll be enough room for everyone in your crew to join.

With three signature beers—a lager, an IPA, and a wheat ale—and approximately eight seasonal beers on rotation, there’s a cold one for every beer-lover’s palate. For something a little unusual try the Generator Wheat, a lightly fruity wheat ale with notes of lemongrass and peppercorns; for something sweet and juicy try Eraserhood, their seasonal North East IPA named after neighborhood alum and filmmaker David Lynch. While you’re there don’t forget to check out the back of the brewery where a different weekly line-up of food trucks feature their fare.

4. Yards Brewing Company Northern Liberties Perhaps the flashiest of breweries on our list (and the only one with an inhouse retail store), Yards—founded in 1994—got a makeover in 2017 when they moved up the street from a cozy tasting room on Delaware Ave to a new 70,000 square-foot location on the corner of 5th and Spring Garden.

Awarded Best Brewpub 2018 by Philadelphia Magazine, Yards has plenty to boast about. With over 20 signature and seasonal beers available on draft in their taproom, Yards is a crowd pleaser. When it comes time to order snacks for the table, know that you’re in good hands—James Beard Award semifinalist Chef Jim Burke is in charge of the kitchen here. Not only will you find your bar food classics but also miso ramen, tuna poke, and pork belly bao buns.

5. Crime and Punishment Brewing Co. Brewery Town Set in the appropriately named Brewerytown, Crime & Punishment is a true no-frills neighborhood brewpub. The idea for C&P was daydreamed up by owner Mike Wambolt while he spent his time painting walls for a living, and was made into a reality nearly five years ago. Adorned with empty bottles and cans of beers past, precariously perched books, and vintage Russian propaganda posters, they definitely have the most niche decor of our brewery roundup.

C&P’s variety of draft beers consist of Sour Ales, IPAs, Berliner Wises, and more—for a funky sour ale try the Cosmodrome, brewed with mangos, passionfruit and coconut, or if you want to stick to what you know (and what you know are IPAs) the Space Race IPA is sure to please. Past featured draft favorites include fun names such as The Guillotine, Indecent Exposure, and House Arrest.

After you’ve had a few too many brews that you find yourself believing that you can understand what the Russian posters are saying, sober up with some potato pierogies or kielbasa and sauerkraut toast from their Russian-inspired food menu—that is sure to keep you warm throughout this winter.

A notable overarching theme throughout all five of these Philadelphia-based breweries is the important sense of bringing the community together over a pint. So whether it’s enjoying a funky mango sour surrounded by Russian propaganda posters or a goat’s brain-infused brew over a wood-fired ‘za, there’s no shortage of drinking buddies in the city of brotherly love.

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plantains: a love story

BY IZZY LOPEZ PHOTOS BY MARIA MURAD

This past summer, I lived in a tiny, humid apartment with a Revolutionary-War-era kitchen. I’m exaggerating, but I soon learned that the “historic” Boston apartment scene was code for “cramped, hot, and everything is broken.” Despite this, I was determined to cook as much as possible. At school, I live in a kitchen-less dorm and this summer was my personal culinary vacation. I made cookies, cakes, mac and cheese with brown butter bread crumbs, tofu stir fry, cauliflower steaks, and more. Not only was I determined to cook as much as I could, but I had a secret mission: learn how to cook Puerto Rican food. My grandfather moved from Puerto Rico to Minneapolis, Minnesota when he was a child, and I have found a connection to my family history through food. I spent my childhood consuming the vibrant array of island flavors. Now it was my turn to cook them.

The flavors of Puerto Rico are rich and complex, but the easiest way to introduce yourself to Puerto Rican cuisine is through the plantain, the larger, greener, starchier cousin of the banana. It is a versatile fruit that can be prepared in countless ways and is much easier to find and cook than it may seem.

To buy plantains, head to your local grocery store. In my experience, I have been able to find plantains at most grocery stores. If your store does not stock them, check out a Mexican market or local produce market. When buying your plantain, pay particular attention to ripeness. An unripe plantain will be green and firm. As they ripen, plan-

tains transition from yellow to yellow with brown spots to mostly brown to black.

All stages of plantain ripeness can be utilized for specific dishes. If you want a savory snack, go for a green plantain. They are firm and starchy and can be fried into tostones, a delicious and crispy snack that is thicker than a plantain chip but thinner than a latke. If you’re in the mood for something sweet, go for a black plantain.

A perfectly ripe plantain will appear almost-entirely black. The window between a well-ripe plantain and a rotten plantain is thin, much like avocados.

Through practice, you will be able to catch a plantain after it has just turned the corner from yellow with brown spots to jet black. This is ideal for frying up into maduros, or sweet plantains. As the name implies, this is a sweet dish, but it can be featured as a savory meal with rice and beans or as a dessert with ice cream and caramel sauce.

Now, you might be reeling at the idea of eating a black plantain. Surely a black peel means the plantain is rotten and must be thrown away, right?

Wrong! This summer, I ripened two plantains with plans to make sweet plantains with chipotle black beans and rice for dinner at the end of the week. All week, I was envisioning cutting into soft plantains, rubbing them with brown sugar, and caramelizing them on a searing-hot cast iron skillet. I left the plantains in a bowl on the kitchen counter and checked on their progress every day like a loving, albeit over-attentive, mother.

They took their t i m e to ripen completely, and I, a d m i t t e d l y, forgot about them for a few days. At the end of the week, I came home from work eager for the meal I had planned. I went to retrieve my plantains and I was shocked to find they were nowhere in sight. I rushed over to our trash can, and prayed that my roommate had taken them for herself. Lifting the metal trash can lid, my worst fears were confirmed. My plantains lay in their garbage-bag grave, delicately dropped atop an empty mac and cheese box.

In a burst of sheer determination— or perhaps desperation—I rescued the plantains. Luckily, the trash had been taken out earlier that morning and my sacred fruit was uncontaminated. I peeled back their delicate black skins and sliced into the tender meat.

A splash of sugar and a quick fry later, and I feasted on the plantains I had so eager awaited. They were worth the wait. penn appétit

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SEXUAL HARASSMENT & THE RESTAURANT INDUSTRY

BY KATHERINE KU PHOTO BY MARIA MURAD

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Mario Batali. John Besh. Ken Friedman.

Between them, these men have 8 James Beard Awards and over 40 accusations of sexual harassment. These three men, among others, are in the spotlight when it comes to sexual harassment in the restaurant industry. Theirs are the faces that have been plastered on major food media outlets, but they represent only a miniscule fraction of the epidemic whose rot has spread throughout the industry. Today, sexual harassment is rampant, cruel, normalized, and institutionalized—perpetuated by those in leadership positions in a male-dominated industry.

In the past two years, the women who have had the strength to come forward about their abuse experiences in the kitchen and dining room have started a movement. Today, Batali’s 25-million-dollar empire is crumbling, with Eataly and Target pulling all of his products and La Sirena set to close by the end of the year. Similarly, Besh has stepped down as the head of the Besh Restaurant Group and Friedman has lost the support of his long-time business partner, Chef April Bloomfield. Change is afoot, but not quickly enough.

For years, these men have been celebrated for their creativity, charisma, and culinary success, but it’s time the full story came out. Batali, one of the biggest names in the business, verbally abused women with crass remarks and was known to give employees “hugs from behind.” Besh engaged in an unwanted sexual relationship with an employee while perpetuating a “bro culture” in his restaurant group, often allowing male employees to take advantage of women. Similarly, Friedman has groped women in public and physically assaulted them, shoving an employee’s face into his crotch and forcibly kissing another. Famed sommelier and restaurateur of Matter House Thomas Carter’s behavior has also been unacceptable, from talking to his employees about the size of his penis to calling a pregnant hostess lazy and reducing her hours. Women should never have

to face unwanted lewd remarks, be threatened with knives if they refuse to complete sexual requests, nor have to choose between taking consistent abuse or losing their jobs.

Going beyond these headliner stories, unfortunately, harassment in the restaurant industry is systemic and runs much deeper. And the problem is not just in fancy, pricier restaurants with headline chefs. Up to 90% of women and 70% of men in the industry have reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment—more than any in any other industry. Employees experience harassment from managers, other employees, and even customers, often in the lower-paying segments of the industries such as in chain restaurants like Pizza Hut and IHOP. Frontline employees are often young females, who are often supervised by older male individuals in management roles, who either participate directly in the abuse, endorse it, or turn a blind eye. The truth is also more easily concealed because of the high employee turnover rate, in which people quickly move from job to job. In addition, servers often depend on tips to make a living wage, since they are often paid less than minimum wage. This contributes to a culture in which “the customer is always right” and employees are punished financially for speaking out.

All of these factors really highlight how the current environment in the restaurant industry is made for fundamental, flagrant sexual harassment.

There are countless stories in which young women, often no more than 16 or 17 years old, are verbally and physically abused but are unable to speak out, whether due to fear or their need to keep their jobs. Back in 2011, a 16-year-old female working at IHOP endured escalating harassment from her boss, for fear of getting fired. Despite her and more than 60 Applebee’s and IHOP employees’ reports of sexual harassment, Dine Brands Global, which operates the two chains, has not taken responsibility, instead blaming the incidents on individual franchises.

Food is supposed to be a unifying force, bringing people together, yet now, this culture of harassment in the restaurant industry is pushing people away. The epidemic must be stopped, especially since so many Americans begin their time in the workforce in the restaurant industry.

So how do we fight back?

The very structure of the industry, from the distribution of wages to management training, needs an overhaul. Those who have been abused by titans in the industry should not be afraid to speak out, which is much easier said than done. Restaurants should establish no-tolerance policies when it comes to sexual harassment and invest in employee and bystander intervention training.

Beyond this, as consumers, we should withdraw our business from chains like Applebee’s or higher -tier restaurant groups which have refused to take action and responsibility. Reputational and economic pressures can force these financially-motivated organizations to make essential changes in the culture. In an even broader context, it’s time for talented women to be given the chance to step into leadership roles, as managers and executive chefs, to promote gender equality and respect in the restaurant industry.

For too long, women have been told to “suck it up” or just quit. For too long, high profile chefs have been allowed to thrive under the cover of fame and wealth. For too long, corporations have neglected reports from their employees, refusing to take liability for their noxious cultures.

No quantity of Michelin stars, successful restaurants, amount of money, or James Beard Awards can justify the disrespect and pain experienced by those who have been affected by the culture of sexual harassment. The restaurant industry is due for an overhaul and it’s about prime time that abusers take responsibility for their actions and treat those around them as human beings, with dignity and common courtesy.

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FISHING IN THE LAST FRONTIER

BY CAROLYN BARR, PHOTOS BY AUTUMN POWELL

When you think of fishing, what do you imagine? A sunny summer day out on the boat, a beer in one hand and a fishing pole in the other? Or do you think of long days, boxed milk, and giant fish vacuums? For Penn student Autumn Powell (‘19), she thinks of the latter.

When I first met Autumn in the fall of 2016, she casually mentioned the fact that she worked on a salmon fishing boat over the summer. Not only did she work on a fishing boat, but said fishing boat was based off the coast of her hometown of Kodiak, Alaska. Seeing that one doesn’t meet many people who a) are an Alaskan Native, or b) worked on a professional fishing boat as a summer job, I was intrigued.

With Autumn’s help, I wanted to give people a new perspective on where the fish on their dinner plate comes from, and an understanding of what goes into the job that most of us will only ever experience by watching “Deadliest Catch” on TV. When I meet with Autumn over

coffee she is more than excited to tell me about what her summers spent as a deckhand and chef on the F/V Alaska Spirit are like, and she doesn’t hesitate to dive in to the technical terms and the nitty gritty of boat life. Jumping right in, she starts by explaining the differences in form and function of the boats she has experience on.

Autumn, who has worked on several kinds over the past decade, is wellversed in the different tiers of industrial fishing and the boats required. This past summer, she lived and worked on a salmon tender boat, which acts as the middleman between the smaller seining boats that catch the fish and the canneries to expedite the salmon canning and distribution process.

In order to be able to transport huge quantities of fish at once, the tenders are each equipped with a “huge suction hose, the diameter is about 1 foot—it sounds fake, but it’s real!” Autumn interjects. “We put it into [the seiner’s] tank and suck up their salmon, then we

sort it out by species.” Autumn dictates how much each boat gets paid by keeping track of the quality and the quantity of salmon each boat delivers. “If I mess up, I’m in big trouble!” she laughs.

Seeing that salmon fishing isn’t your average desk job, there are no typical working hours that coincide with it. “Depending on the number of boats we take we can work until 2 in the morning, or sometimes we won’t start until 10 in the evening and work until 8 in the morning. It’s a lot of odd sleeping hours, you never know when you’re going to get to sleep and you just take naps when you can,” Autumn says.

Remember how hard your fishermen and women work for you the next time you buy locally sourced wild seafood.

Aside from working as a deckhand on the boat, Autumn works as the inhouse (on-boat) chef, preparing daily meals for the tender’s five crew members along with the captain’s family, something she really enjoys. “In the past, crew meals were more complicatpenn appétit

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ed because I had several people with dietary restrictions on the boat and that made it more difficult,” she explains. “This summer it was a lot easier because everyone would eat whatever I made them so I had a lot of fun just making up recipes.”

You can’t eat salmon for every meal of every day, so what does one cook for a crowd while on a boat without access to other fresh ingredients for months on end? Autumn cites her meatballs and chicken marsala as two crew favorites, and on one particular day where she was feeling extra ambitious she made French bread from scratch.

“I also baked a lot,” she adds, “I made cookies for every single boat that came to us and I’d make different cookies every single time—I wouldn’t just make chocolate chip, I’d be like ‘this one’s a

surprise cookie, it has a marshmallow in the middle’ or ‘it’s got chocolate ganache on top!’” Anything that broke the monotony of salmon every day was much appreciated.

Kind gestures like fresh baked cookies were not overlooked seeing that many of the other boat’s crew members hadn’t been back to port in months, and it was not uncommon for fishermen to barter and buy groceries from Autumn’s crew, who were able to get back to land about once a month. “We buy in bulk stuff that doesn’t go bad, all of our milk I used for cooking was boxed. We used frozen pre-prepared vegetables, that kind of thing. We had a huge freezer,” she recalls.

Towards the end of our conversation, Autumn took a minute to reflect on how rare it is to see women working

in this particular industry: “It’s crazy because I know it’s unusual to meet someone who works on a fishing boat while in Philly, but even for me as a woman in Kodiak, to work on a fishing boat is uncommon. Women don’t work on fishing boats because they get harassed or they’re seen as weaker,” says Autumn, listing issues that women unfortunately encounter in multiple facets of life—but she sounds hopeful.

“Now there’s a lot more women working in fishing and I love it. From the time I started fishing to now it’s gone up exponentially but it’s still a very small percentage of the population.”

When asked if she’d like to continue down this career path, she grins and nods her head—“It’s the family business, it’s actually pretty fun!”

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OLIVE OIL, EXPLAINED

BY JASON PAK ILLUSTRATION BY REESE BERMAN

Among the hills of the Tuscan countryside and the breathtaking landscape of central Florence exists a small restaurant called Alla Vecchia Bettola. Packed with rustic wooden tables and stools, the restaurant seems innocuous and not worthy of much attention. Upon sitting down, the first thing you see at your table are three bottles: a large jug of Cabernet Franc, a slim vial of homemade balsamic vinegar, and a bottle of olive oil with an understated label that reads Chianti Classico. Within minutes, a cheerful waiter approaches with a woven basket lined with a linen napkin; inside is the fluffiest focaccia.

As he sets it on the rustic tablecloth, he unabashedly orders you to eat it with the olive oil before even touching the balsamic vinegar. After your meal and a few glasses of wine to keep your cheeks rosy, you rise and thank the staff at Alla Vecchia Bettola. The bottle of balsamic vinegar at each table is practically untouched, and the bottle of olive oil is next to empty.

Common belief is that olive oil is a “healthier” alternative to butter in everything we eat. While that may be true, I have an issue with the connotations of the word “healthy.”

There tends to be an association that “healthy” foods aren’t as decadent as “unhealthy” foods. In the case of fats like olive oil and butter, the disparity, on first impression, seems clear. Olive

oil pairs well with food like bread or light, refreshing summer pomodori or tomatoes. Butter, on the other hand, is what makes chocolate chip cookies so melty and delightful and keeps our rib-eye steaks juicy and flavorful. And if you’re like me, eating straight butter feels like the guiltiest pleasure—one that I hope everyone remembers from their childhood.

But to those in the know, olive oil is far superior. It is one of the oldest ingredients still in use today, always prized for its versatility. The olive tree itself is native to the Mediterranean, and wild olives have been collected and used for religious, medicinal, and culinary purposes since the eighth millennium BCE. In the Hebrew Bible, the first olive oil extraction took place during the Exodus from Egypt during the thirteenth century BCE. Since then it has been especially common in Greek, Spanish, Turkish, and Italian cuisines.

Olive oil is produced using two methods, one traditional and one modern. The traditional method entails grinding olives into a paste using large millstones. The oil makers will leave it for roughly half an hour underneath these mills; leaving the paste under the stones for less time can result in a lower volume of oil and a raw taste, while leaving the paste for longer than half an hour can increase oxidation of the paste, thus reducing the flavor. After

the olives have been ground and the paste has sat for some time, the oil is extracted from the remaining water in the paste either through suspension— the water will settle as it is more dense, leaving the oil on top—or through centrifugation, in which the remaining water and the oil separate into different chambers. A modern method mimics this traditional approach, utilizing steel drums instead of stone mills. The ground olive paste is slowly stirred in a container in which the oil drips through a filter. After the oil is collected, it is refined again through centrifugation. While neither process is necessarily better, many traditional chefs prefer to maintain the authentic practices of olive oil refining while larger manufacturers will use the modern method to produce oil more quickly.

The difference between virgin and extra virgin olive oil depends entirely on the conditions in which the olives were grown. Extra virgin olive oil, produced the same way as virgin olive oil, has exceptionally low free acidity, meaning that the percentage of oleic acid, a free fatty acid in olive oil, is lower than 0.8%. This distinction is responsible for not only the difference in taste between extra virgin and virgin olive oil but also their respective smoking points.

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virgin olive oil and refined light olive oil, whose name is indicative of its lighter flavor, have a smoke point of up to 240°C (465°F). The difference in smoking points for different varieties of oil make them suitable to particular cooking methods. For example, if extra virgin olive oil is heated above 210°C (410°F), the unrefined particles in the oil are burned off, leading to a diminished taste. Thus, extra virgin olive oil is unsuitable for deep fried foods; instead, it is usually served at room temperature, at which its scent and flavor are best demonstrated. Refined olive oils, on the other hand, can be used for deep frying due to their higher smoke point and milder flavor.

All of these nuances—the weather conditions during the growth of the olive tree, the method of oil extraction, and the chemical balance of the oil itself—contribute to olive oil’s culinary versatility. It’s exactly why olives are one of the three staple culinary plants in the Mediterranean. And it’s exactly why I think dishes made with olive oil are as delightful—if not more so—as dishes made with butter.

Olive oil-confit chicken. The basic recipe involves chicken thighs and baby Yukon Gold potatoes that are slowly cooked in olive oil. This cooking method crispens the skin of both the meat and the potatoes to a glowing golden brown while leaving their centers juicy, soft, and well-saturated with the aromas of olive oil. Chefs often add other flavor-boosting elements: garlic, shallots, cipollini onions, cherry tomatoes, baby carrots, rosemary, fennel seeds, balsamic vinegar reductions, and so much more. Using pure olive oil as the key fat, this confit boasts strong yet balanced flavors all around. A pervasive savoriness throughout. A sweetness from the cipollini onions, cherry tomatoes, and baby carrots. A sophisticated aroma from the rosemary and fennel. A nearly indiscernible tanginess from lemon.

Squid ink pasta. If you have yet to try it, you have yet to live at all. While squid ink is this dish’s figurehead ingredient, olive oil is its foundation.

Shrimp, scallops, garlic, tomatoes, and ‘nduja are all sizzled in a skillet, resulting in a sudden and robust fragrance

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before squid ink linguine is added.

Some chefs may include additional seafood like sea urchin and black cod, and such ingredients add to the complexity of flavors. The result is a dish representative of the sea and the land, incorporating flavors that remind you of various regions of the world.

These dishes are only two of thousands that are made with olive oil, and the range of cultures, culinary practices, and flavors represented in each is of an overwhelming scope. Of course, the best way to appreciate olive oil—or at least the purest, most unadulterated— is to have it alone with fresh bread. Eating it this way brings me back to Alla Vecchia Bettola—a casual and warm environment where the taste of olive oil was filled with a certain sweetness.

A sweetness imparted by the laughs of the people around you and the company of those savoring the same olive-oil drenched focaccia as you are.

FAT SMOKE POINTS Extra virgin olive oil: 320℉ Butter: 350℉ Coconut oil: 350℉ Lard: 370℉ Canola oil: 400℉ Virgin olive oil: 420℉ Grapeseed oil: 420℉ Peanut oil: 440℉ Light olive oil: 470℉ Avocado oil: 520℉

ARTICHOKE IN OLIVE OIL, A LA TURC RECIPE BY DENIZ ENFIYECI Serves 8 ½ cup olive oil ½ white onion, diced 1 medium size potato, diced 1 carrot, diced 1 cup frozen peas, thawed 8 artichoke bottoms Lemon juice from 2 lemons 1 cup water 2 tsp sugar 1 tsp salt Dill (optional, for serving) Saute the onion in a pan with the olive oil for 5 to 7 minutes. Then add the potatoes and carrots and keep cooking for 3 minutes. Add the peas, cooking for another 3 minutes, and then remove from heat.

Mix the lemon juice, water, sugar and salt.

In a deeper and wider pot, place the artichoke bottoms facing up. Add the liquid mixture and the mixed vegetable garniture you prepared into the pot as well. Cover with the lid and cook for 30-40 minutes on medium-low heat.

Set aside to cool, place in the fridge after it’s room temperature, and serve cold with chopped dill sprinkled on top.

Finding Love in the Dairy Isle

Are you lovesick? Lonely? Need some spice in your life?

We’re here to help make life a little bit butter! Stop by your local grocery store to peruse our diverse selection of eligible butters and find exactly what you need for your Friday night.

BY GRACE LEAHY ILLUSTRATIONS BY REESE BERMAN

Kerrygold Extra Creamy European Style Butter is smooth and seductive. Loves artisanal baguettes, an espresso, a good game of football (real football), and not to mention—is crazy rich. Looking for someone who can keep up with its luxurious, world-travelling lifestyle and doesn’t mind their food a little bit dense.

Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter is super fit—the total health nut. You can always find him at the gym loading up on protein and steering clear of unnecessary carbs. Never skips leg day.

Cooking Spray is laid-back, light-hearted, and a total charmer. All about ease and with no expectations.

Prefers a cozy night of cooking in, but his real favorite is throwing some spiced banana muffins in the oven.

Earth Balance Vegan Butter prefers to pass the days in stylish flannel at the local cafe, listening to the Arctic Monkeys and sipping an artisanal soy matcha latte. Doesn’t go anywhere without a camera, considers himself one with nature. Conservatives need not apply.

Land O’Lakes Salted Butter is best described as classic. Stable income, but definitely thrifty. Don’t expect spontaneous serenades, but he’s a total softy once you get to know him. A family man and great conversationalist, if a bit square. penn appétit

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Browned Butter Pistachio Madeleines RECIPE BY RACHEL PROKUPEK 3 large (175g) eggs .675 cups (135g) sugar 1 tsp (5g) baking powder 1/3 tsp (2.3g) salt 2/3 cup (150g) butter, browned .3 cups (32g) pistachio powder 3/4 cup (93g) flour Combine all ingredients with a spatula and transfer to a piping bag with no tip.

Use scissors to cut a small hole and pipe into madeleine molds, only filling half way.

Bake at 350F for 5 minutes if you have small molds, and 7-8 minutes of you have large molds.

Remove from molds while hot and let cool.

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Cooking with

Butters

BY RACHEL PROKUPEK PHOTO BY YIN WANG AND ALAN JINICH

Browned What it is: Browned butter is like liquid gold; it adds a nutty aroma to any dish and is the secret to the best chocolate chip cookies and madeleines. Heat butter in a hot pan for a few minutes, until it is foamy and golden, and then swirl the pan constantly until it becomes a deep amber color. Watch it carefully, and always take the butter off the heat early because it continues to brown in the pan—you don’t want it to burn.

How to use it: Add browned butter to your cookies, baste your pork chop, or make a browned butter sage sauce (a classic) for your pasta. My personal favorite is to brown butter in a skillet with mushrooms—I fold them into risotto or eat them straight from the pan.

Whipped What it is: Whipped butter is bread’s best friend. Spreadable, light, and airy, it goes well with almost anything.

Make whipped butter at home by incorporating air with a whisk, and use it as a spread; a little goes a long way.

Do not cook or bake with whipped butter – the volume messes with precise recipes.

How to use it: Crusty bread + whipped butter + radishes + flaky salt. Simple, but everyone will suddenly think you work at Bon Appétit. I love whipped butter on banana bread; it makes brunches that much more indulgent.

Clarified What it is: Clarified butter is butter without water or milk solids, leaving just the butterfat. It has a longer shelf life and higher smoking point than regular butter, which is great if you are cooking at a high heat. You can buy ghee (a type of clarified butter originally made in India) at the store, but you can easily make it at home. Cook butter at a very low temperature (do not brown it), until the milk solids are separated and it has a deep golden color, and strain with a cheesecloth.

How to use it: Clarified butter has too strong of a flavor for baking, so reserve it for meats and vegetables. Pan fry chicken cutlets (or anything, really) at a high heat without the risk of burning the butter. Let the flavor shine in simple pasta dishes or roasted vegetables.

Compound What it is: Compound butter can be anything you want it to be, and more.

It is softened butter, whipped with other ingredients. Make it sweet by adding orange zest, maple syrup, or honey.

Pair meats and vegetables with butter mixed with herbs, spices, or cheese. To make it at home, blend the sweet or savory ingredients into softened butter, transfer to a piece of parchment paper, form into a log, and wrap it up well.

Chill completely before using.

How to use it: Throw together a garlic herb compound butter to melt on grilled steak, or spread a honey butter onto cornbread. You can also make the best garlic bread with a parmesan garlic butter—the possibilities are endless. penn appétit

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Demystifying Obscure

NUT AND SEED BUTTERS

BY ALICE GOULDING, PHOTOS BY ALAINA CHOU AND MINSUH PARK

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Regaled as a healthy fat, nut and seed butters have long been considered one of the most complete plant-based proteins, chock full of essential healthy fats. From Asian cooking to the sandwiches my dad packed for me every day of first grade, peanut butter is a staple in most (allergy-free!) pantries. In the past few years, as superfoods have increased in salience, almond butter has also become a popular spread as well.

But what about all the other varieties?

Your cocktail mix has half a dozen other nuts in it; don’t shy away from trying them in butter form: PISTACHIO

Taste: A vibrant kelly green, the pistachio has a naturally sweet aftertaste.

As a butter, it maintains a slight sweetness, but not to a point that overpowers the earthy aroma of the nut.

Pairs well with: Anything and everything. Put on toast with a bit of honey, spread onto a croissant or other pastry, or enjoyed by the spoonful serendipitously, the preferred medium for my roommate and me.

Recipe: The butter works great as a marinade. Add a couple tablespoons to a bowl, along with some minced garlic, chopped thyme leaves, and a squeeze of lemon. Whisk thoroughly and spread on top of chicken or tempeh before baking.

CASHEW Taste: Silky and sweet, this butter was the runniest by far, and had the most conventional nut butter taste of the bunch.

Pairs well with: Drizzled on top of oatmeal, along with some fresh berries and cinnamon.

Recipe: For a different take on a classic (and easy) recipe, substitute cashew butter for peanut in a Pad Thai stir-fry.

I mixed equal parts butter and water with a few tablespoons of tamari, a teaspoon of rice wine vinegar, minced garlic and ginger, and a sprinkling of salt, and added it to my wok of noodles and vegetables.

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PECAN

Taste: Though I purchased an unsalted and unsweetened version, this butter had vanilla undertones. Pecans have a natural sweetness about them, and that taste also came across.

Pairs well with: Because this butter is a bit blander than the rest, it works great as a creamy base for a vinaigrette.

Emulsify vinegar, olive oil, and the butter together, and drizzle over arugula and shaved parmesan for a simple and eclectic side dish.

Paris well with: Given the sweet, almost dessert-like nature of the butter, add it to an hors d’oeuvre plate with a sharp cheese—the two will complement each other, with the cheese bringing out some of the smokier undertones of the butter.

Recipe: Two words. Pecan. Cookies.

Think the peanut butter cookies they divvied out in preschool before all peanuts were banned from the premises, but more sophisticated, with an even richer and creamier consistency. Mix 1 cup of pecan butter, 1 cup of granulated sugar, and 1 egg in a bowl; bake at 350 for 10 minutes, or substitute for peanut butter in your favorite peanut butter cookie recipe for perfection.

Recipe: Variations on pesto—typically made with basil, olive oil, and parmesan, garlic, and Italian spices—have become increasingly popular in the past few years. Make a traditional pesto sauce, but substitute in pumpkin seed butter for the basil. Perfect atop ravioli or tortellini.

WALNUT

Taste: Walnuts can have a bitter taste to them; often candied before served, this might not seem the most intuitive choice for a sweet butter. And yet, this option tasted the most like a traditional peanut butter.

Pairs well with: Unlike the pecan, walnut butter has a slightly bitter aftertaste. Because of this it works best with sweeter ingredients. I used it as as a filling for medjool dates, and the combination was the perfect balance of sweet and savory.

Recipe: I mixed in a ¼ cup to my banana bread batter and drizzled some more on top before putting it in the oven.

The walnut butter added an extra dimension to the bread and cut some of the sweetness of the overripe bananas.

PUMPKIN SEED

Taste: A determinately savory pick, the pumpkin seed butter felt like it was more of a paste meant for filling a pastry than a spreadable condiment.

WATERMELON SEED

Taste: This butter is not for the faint of heart. There’s a reason no one actually eats watermelon seeds—with a sour and astringent taste, I found this one to be almost unpalatable.

Pairs well with: I really would not recommend eating this on its own.

Recipe: The sour aftertaste of the watermelon seed is mostly masked when saturated in confectioners’ sugar. Take a basic peanut butter fudge recipe and substitute in watermelon seed—the resulting dessert is creamy and sweet, almost reminiscent of white chocolate.

MACADAMIA Taste: Very creamy and rich flavor, but with a very soft taste—almost as though it was flavored with macadamia, but not actually comprised of the nut.

Pairs well with: Because of how rich this butter is, you want to cut it with something tart. It works great as a dip for sliced up Granny Smith apples.

Recipe: Lobster and butter is a classic combination, but mix up this American delicacy by making a macadamia sauce to cook the crustacean in. Combine the butter, parsley, shallots, and minced garlic in a deep cooking dish; refrigerate till hardened. Cut paste into slices and place on top of the lobster and grill, allowing butter to melt as it cooks.

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SWEET POTATO PAVÉ WITH HAZELNUT BUTTER CREAM SAUCE AND CRISPY LOTUS ROOT RECIPE BY JENNIFER HIGA

Serves approx. 6

Preheat the oven to 350F.

Pavé 1 cup heavy cream or non-dairy milk (I recommend oat or cashew milk) Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 3 pounds sweet potatoes (three 1-pound potatoes if possible) 5 tbs. olive oil or cultured vegan butter, melted Canola oil 2 thyme sprigs 2 garlic cloves, lighted crushed, skin left on

Pour the cream into a large bowl and season with 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Peel the sweet potatoes. Cut a thin lengthwise slice off one side of a sweet potato so it will rest flat.

Lay a mandoline or other vegetable slicer over the bowl of cream and slice the potato lengthwise into very thin (about 1/16 inch) slices, letting them drop into the cream. Stop from time to time to toss the slices in the cream to keep them coated and prevent them from oxidizing. Repeat with the remaining potatoes.

Mushrooms ½ cup balsamic vinegar 3 tbs. Dijon mustard 2 tbs. olive oil 2 portobello mushrooms Kosher salt Caramelized Onions 2 cups sliced sweet onion 2 tbs. olive oil 2 tbs. balsamic vinegar Kosher salt Hazelnut Cream Sauce 2 tbs. olive oil 3 cloves of garlic, minced 1 sprig of thyme ¼ cup dry white wine ½ cup raw hazelnuts 2 tbs. butter 1 tsp. maple syrup 1 tbs. balsamic vinegar ¼ tsp. freshly ground nutmeg ¼ tsp. ground cinnamon kosher salt white pepper Lotus Root Chips 1 small lotus root 2 tsp. rice wine vinegar or any acid of choice Canola oil White truffle infused olive oil to garnish

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Brush a 10 by 6 1/2 by 3 inch casserole pan with olive oil. Line with parchment paper, leaving a slight overhang on the two long sides. These extensions will be used as handles when unmolding.

Brush the parchment with more olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Lay the potato slices in the direction that works best to fill the pan. Repeat to form a second layer. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Continue layering the potatoes, adding fats and seasonings after each layer. Cover the top with another layer of parchment paper. Cover tightly with a piece of aluminum foil.

Bake the potatoes for 1 hour and 50 minutes, or until completely tender when pierced with the tip of a knife.

Remove from the oven and let cool for 15 minutes. Put a weight on top of the potatoes (full bean or soup cans work well), cool to room temperature, wrap well, and refrigerate for at least 6 hours, or up to 2 days.

For the portobello mushrooms, clean mushrooms with a damp towel and slice into 1/2 inch thick slices. Mix balsamic vinegar, Dijon mustard, and olive oil. Marinate the mushrooms for at least an hour.

Then, caramelize the onions. Add olive oil to a medium-hot pan. Add sliced onion and cook on medium-low heat for about forty minutes, or until onions are caramelized.

In the same pan that you cooked the onions in, place marinated mushrooms and the rest of the marinade. Cook on medium heat until mushrooms are tender and marinade is reduced.

For homemade hazelnut butter, preheat the oven to 400F. Place the raw hazelnuts on a baking sheet and toast in the oven for about 8 minutes, or until fragrant. Remove from the oven and cool. When cool enough to handle, place the nuts on a kitchen towel, fold the towel over to cover them and rub to remove the skins. Place the cooled hazelnuts into a food processor or blender and grind to a fine powder. Add butter to the nuts and blend thoroughly.

Set the hazelnut butter aside.

To make the sauce, saute the garlic and thyme in the olive oil in a medium pot.

Then, add in the white wine and let the alcohol cook off, about 2 minutes. Add in your hazelnut butter. Stir vigorously to emulsify, then pour in the maple syrup and balsamic vinegar. When everything is mixed thoroughly, finish the sauce off with ground cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Adjust seasoning to taste.

To prep the pavé, run a palette knife around the two longer sides of the pavé to release it from the pan, or invert onto a cutting surface. Trim all sides of the pavé. Cut the pavé into 12 equal pieces and let sit at room temperature for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the lotus root chips.

Rinse the lotus root and use a mandolin slider to make 1/8 inch thin slices. Add the rice vinegar to a bowl of water, and soak the sliced lotus root in the vinegar water for 5-10 minutes. The vinegar wa-

ter will prevent the lotus root from oxidizing. Rinse and drain well, patting dry on paper towel—make sure to dry off all the liquid Fill a medium pot halfway with canola oil. Heat the oil to 340F on medium high heat. Drop a piece of lotus root to see if it’s ready. If it comes right up, then it’s time to deep fry. Deep fry until the lotus root gets crispy and golden colored.

Once they are nicely fried, spread on a wire rack or paper towel to soak up excess oil. Season with salt.

To finish the pavé, heat some canola oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. Add the pavé slices cut-sidedown, add the thyme and the garlic, and cook, basting with the liquid in the pan, until browned on the first side, then turn carefully and brown the opposite side.

the potato pavé on a serving plate, browned side up, on top of the sauce or beside it. Spoon the mushroom and caramelized onion mixture on top.

Place a few crispy fried lotus roots on top and drizzle with white truffle infused olive oil.

Fill a medium pot halfway with canola oil. Heat the oil to 340F on medium high heat. Drop a piece of lotus root to see if it’s ready. If it comes right up, then it’s time to deep fry. Deep fry until the lotus root gets crispy and golden color.

Once they are nicely fried, spread on a wire rack or paper towel to soak excess oil. Season with salt.

and cook, basting with the liquid in the pan, until browned on the first side, then turn carefully and brown the opposite side.

To serve, spoon some hazelnut butter cream sauce on your plate. Arrange the potato pavé on a serving plate, browned side up, on top of the sauce or beside it. Spoon the mushroom and caramelized onion mixture on top.

Place a few crispy fried lotus roots on top and drizzle with white truffle infused olive oil.

To finish the pavé, heat some canola oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. Add the pavé slices cut-sidedown, add the thyme and the garlic,

To serve, spoon some hazelnut butter cream sauce on your plate. Arrange

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THE WAR ON FAT penn appétit

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“NEEDLESS TO SAY, IT WAS ALL A LIE.” 62

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BY ZIHAN KABIR PHOTOS BY ERICA XIN AND MINSUH PARK For decades, a secret war has been waging in America; however, instead of armies with bullets, the belligerents are wealthy industries, fighting tooth and nail for a prize like no other: us, the consumer. Companies ceaselessly seek to shape our perceptions of the world around us, and it’s impossible to know the full extent to which our beliefs are accurate or even our own. As this wild story of fat demonstrates, sometimes, the perceptions we form may actually be the product of a decades-long corporate conspiracy involving millions of dollars and a mission to redefine national discourse. Fat, as any trip to the grocery store will verify, is an unmistakable casualty of the struggle between companies, scientists, and the government. We gravitate toward the low-fat and fat-free labels that dominate the market, and the idea that fat is unhealthy just seems to be common sense. Yet once, fat was just another part of our diet, like protein and carbs.

It wasn’t until the mid-20th century that everything changed. Rates of obesity and heart disease were climbing, affecting Americans of all walks of life; eight senators died of heart disease in the 60s and 70s alone. The government urgently needed a plan of action to address what was starting to resemble a public health crisis. Nutritionists and researchers racked their brains—something in our diet had to be to blame, but what? Several competing theories arose to explain the trend, including

one that viewed fat as the main cause of heart disease and another that pointed the finger at sugar.

Unbeknownst to most of us, there was another actor involved, one with a lot to lose—Big Sugar itself. With more and more studies implicating the dietary risks of sugar being published, desperate industry executives came together to create a group known as the Sugar Research Foundation. The actions of the sugar industry, hidden for decades, were only revealed in 2016 by a researcher at the University of California, San Francisco, who analyzed historic internal industry documents.

Their strategy was two-pronged: to derail studies that might reveal the harms of sugar and to convince the country that fat was the main cause of heart disease and obesity. In a speech, the president of the foundation noted the profitability of such an approach; if Americans were to cut fat from their diet, they would have to compensate by eating more sugar.

Thus, the SRF found a group of Harvard researchers and paid them $50,000 to publish a review which refuted previous anti-sugar studies and promoted the idea that fat was to blame. It was the start of a massive PR campaign aimed at completely reshaping public opinion by recruiting medical professionals and spearheading more studies.

By 1977, the government, influenced by many of these studies, had published dietary guidelines suggesting that fat, not sugar, would lead to heart disease.

Big Sugar pushed further, and after intense lobbying and selective funding of research, it achieved another victory,

with the government identifying sugar as a healthy part of a balanced diet.

Within a few years, the American consumer had been indoctrinated. Fat was bad, and sugar normal. Fat-free and low-fat goods filled the aisles of stores and the pantries of consumers.

They didn’t just buy a lot of these products—they also felt good about eating them.

Needless to say, it was all a lie. Limiting fat didn’t reduce rates of obesity and heart disease, it increased them.

And since new products had replaced fat with significantly higher sugar contents than ever before, even more money flowed to Big Sugar.

It would be hard to ignore the success of sugar; I’ve lived most of my life under the assumption that fat, as the name suggests, makes you fat. It wasn’t until recently that society has started similar push backs against sugar and carbohydrates.

This does not mean all hope is lost for the consumer—since the revelations of the role in the sugar industry in demonizing fat, many unaffiliated studies have emerged proving how sugar can cause heart disease and obesity. The lesson to learn from fat is that not all research is unbiased and benevolent; there are often ulterior motives at work. The war is far from over; industries still spend millions funding research in various areas, and many of our decisions are likely inadvertently affected by corporate interests. Now, however, perhaps we will be more wary of the secret interests that may be at work.

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THE PERFECT CAKE

BY IZZY LOPEZ PHOTOS BY JEAN CHAPIRO Every year, my mother threw me a do-it-yourself, at-home birthday party.

She didn’t believe in paying for laser tag or roller skating parties or even traveling to a local park. My mother, an engineer, believed that she could make anything herself. There were homemade games and decorations and, best of all, homemade birthday cake. My mother baked my cake every year and 64

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adhered to the same recipe: yellow butter cake with buttercream frosting. The shape and theme of the cake changed annually, but the cake itself was constant. Part of the fun of my birthday was watching my mother bake. As she embarked on her annual mission, I would linger in the kitchen doorway to watch her process.

Each cake began the same way. She gathered her ingredients on the kitchen counter: butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, flour, salt, baking powder, milk. Armed with her tools—measuring cups and spoons, spatula, and a butter knife—she set to work.

Butter came first. Hard from the fridge, it needed to be warmed un-

til just soft enough to beat into a thick cream. Neither my mother nor I ever have the foresight to leave a stick of butter on the counter for a few hours before we intend to bake. We use a microwave instead. She placed the butter in a glass bowl, set it into the microwave, and stood guard as she blasted it for twenty seconds at a time. After each interval, she poked the fatty mass until it was sufficiently soft. She dumped the butter into the silver bowl of our vintage stand mixer. Flicking on the paddle, she stared into the bowl, hands firmly placed on the edge of the counter, and watched the butter transform. She streamed in sugar and continued to stare into the mixing bowl as

the two ingredients creamed together and grew light and fluffy. This step was crucial to creating the perfect butter cake.

But my mother didn’t narrate her baking. Rather than teaching from the kitchen counter, she worked in silence. Moving swiftly, she measured out precise cups of flour and tapped them into a separate glass bowl. My mother measured flour with all the learned precision of her science education. She dipped the measuring cup into the bag of flour and scooped until the cup was topped with a soft, floury mound. With her empty hand, she retrieved a butter knife and tapped off the excess. She eyed the cup to ensure

it was perfectly level. Satisfied, she emptied it into the awaiting bowl. She repeated this with the remaining flour and baking powder. No measurement was inconsequential. It all mattered.

To her, baking was a science.

On occasion, my mother would give me a baking lesson. Together, we made cookies, cakes, and pies, though she kept her secret for the perfect pie crust to herself. When it came time to measure the flour, my mother would hand me the cup and watch as I shoved my hand into the flour bag and shook off the excess. Worse than that, I dumped all the flour into the mixer at once which resulted in what she called a flour tornado. Knowing I had

broken her rules, I would fetch a paper towel and wipe the flour off our mixer and countertops. My mother tried not to yell, but her pursed lips and sharp exhale told me she was agitated. Why couldn’t I just follow the rules?

After flour came eggs and milk. She cracked the eggs on the side of the metal bowl—I cracked them on the counter—and let them plop down into the batter. The mixer whirred. She poured the milk in a gentle stream.

When the batter was complete, she clicked off the mixer and stood back to examine her creation. Scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, she transferred the batter into a prepared pan and set it in the oven penn appétit

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to bake. I held my breath. Forty minutes later, the timer dinged, and she stooped down to pull out the cake and prick it with a cake tester, a large, pin-like tool that she inserted into the cake’s center. My mother was emphatic that a finished cake should leave no trace of moisture on the cake tester. If it did, it wasn’t ready. It must be baked longer.

Baking the cake was only half of it.

Next, she decorated. My birthday party theme dictated each cake’s decoration.

For my sixth birthday, she transformed a sheet cake into an edible Spongebob, complete with yellow buttercream frosting, Airhead candy teeth, and Hostess Ho-Ho shoes.

For my tenth birthday, she shaped a dome cake into an igloo with an entire box of sugar cubes, blue and white butter cream, and cola flavored gummy penguins.

For my thirteenth birthday, she piped perfect buttercream stars onto an oversized popcorn box. Each frosting-kernel was the same height and width as its neighbor.

For my sixteenth birthday, she created a cake iPod playing “Izzy’s Greatest Hits.”

Each cake was devoured in its entirety. What wasn’t eaten at the party was given away to guests and saved

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in our fridge as “breakfast cake.” Her cakes were springy to the touch and uniformly baked. Whatever mistakes she made—if she made a mistake— were covered up with frosting, sprinkles, and a mother’s love. Her cakes were perfect. And that was part of the problem.

My mother’s perfectionism wasn’t restricted to cakes. It invaded every part of her life. As her daughter, I was expected to get perfect grades at school. She emphasized the chasm of difference between an A- and an A, and she grew irritated by my passion for drama club when she believed I could have been studying math or science. I was expected to keep the house spotless. When I hadn’t cleaned my bathroom to her liking, she would storm in, sponge in hand, and command that the sink should be “clean enough to eat off of.” I was expected to manage my own schedule. If I missed the bus to school, she would grumble out of bed and remind me how much of her time I was wasting with my incompetence.

Our worst fights came when I applied to college. Somehow, I had done everything wrong. I wanted to major in theater and writing, and she said I was throwing away her money. Why didn’t I want to do something productive with my life? Why didn’t I want to be

like her?

My mother’s expectations of me were an ever-rising bar and I never felt good enough for her. Since I have moved away from home, I have struggled to reconcile my memories of my mother. In some, she bakes intricate cakes for her exuberant daughter. In others, she screams that I have ruined her life. Who is this complicated woman who created and destroyed? And, in the wake of her contradictions, who am I? At this moment, I don’t have any easy answers. I don’t speak to my mother anymore, but I find myself missing her. Her absence in my life is an unshakeable presence and I often feel that I have no way to connect with her that isn’t an insult in disguise. But, I have her recipes. For cakes, cookies, pies, and more. When I first left I home, I followed their instructions exactly, just as my mother did. Now, a few years later, I am beginning to experiment. I don’t bake the same cakes as my mother, but I use the same frosting. I use butter in my cookies instead of shortening. I don’t level off my flour, but I stare into the mixer and watch as the speeding paddle transforms butter and sugar into something new.

after a medley of mikes, sal

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“I think you’ve got the wrong Mike,” says an ear-ringed, twenty-something Mike from behind the counter of Claudio Specialty Foods in South Philadelphia.

All in a variety of Claudio tee shirts and armed with different forms of delicatessen, Mike’s colleagues bustle around the counter—a couple loading boxes of meats, some weighing olives for customers, another restocking the fridge with cheeses. Claudio imports their gourmet specialty foods from all across Europe, but most importantly, they carry all their Italian favorites. A few of the cheeses, however, they make in-house. I’d spoken to the right Mike on the phone to figure out a good time for me to come watch them make their fresh mozzarella. We’d determined (possibly, hopefully) a Tuesday, midday. Peter, a photographer, had agreed to come along.

“He’s not here right now,” says other Mike. He admits, genially, that he’d been excited to hear that someone was asking for him; usually it’s only the veterans that customers know by name.

In the following minutes, twenty-

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something Mike directs us to Yvonne, who directs us to the right Mike, who, after telling us they won’t be making mozzarella today after all, directs us to an unsuspecting Sal. He waves. We tell him a bit about us before turning the conversation onto him.

“What do I do?” he repeats, shrugging. “Pretty much everything.”

He laughs and continues, “I’ve been working here since I was eight.” I’m not surprised, since Claudio is owned and operated by the family.

As he leans on the counter, Sal humors us by outlining the three generations—or nearly seventy years worth—of Claudio’s lineage, listing off his father, his father’s father (the Claudio) who immigrated here from Italy, as well as a slew of other Italian names, which includes a brother Claudio, a brother Mario, an aunt, an uncle, and two additional Sals.

Eagerly, our Sal slips past us and to the towers of La Fabbrica imported pastas. “Working with family is something not a lot of people are capable of,” he says. “I can tell you that.”

He tells us it can be stressful, especially with a family full of personality. “Of course we all do dinner together”— because why wouldn’t you with this place at your disposal—“but then, you

know, we all scatter again.” He shakes his head. “It’s like, ‘I’ve been looking at you for sixteen hours today. I don’t wanna look at ya anymore.’”

He picks up one of sixty-plus cuts of La Fabbrica available, explaining to us why it’s “the best in the world.”

In the warehouse down the street, he tells us there is pasta everywhere—all imported from Gragnano, Italy. “It’s how they cut it, it’s the ingredients they use to make it…even the dyes they use to cut it…there’s certain kinds of metal that you shouldn’t cut it with.

They use all top quality stuff.”

And, then, one of the highlights: he offers us samples.

In the next few minutes, Sal shares different elements of his craft with us, starting with a bottle of unfiltered Claudio olive oil from Puglia and another of twenty-five-year-old aged balsamic from Modena, in the south of Italy. “I used to be able to say it was older than me, but those days are over,” he jokes. The dressing drips over balls of their fresh mozzarella like syrup. “You can just see the way it sticks to the sides,” he adds, tipping his chin toward the bottle. The majority of the goods at Claudio are hand-selected and imported from Italy, but the mozzarella is made in-house. He explains that the

reason they aren’t making any today is because they don’t make anything before they need it—the shorter the shelf life, the better.

We see exactly what he meant. The off-white mozzarella is as authentic as it gets, soft and malleable but not rubbery, and when saturated with the rich, dense balsamic, it pairs beautifully. The residual sweet scent leaves us wanting more.

A couple of customers beside us notice me scraping the balsamic from the paper in which it was served. “You have to try this one right here,” one of them says, pointing to a giant hunk of cheese resting on the counter. Whatever it was, it was heavenly.

Next, Sal lays out some twenty-twomonth prosciutto from Parma, specifying, “My dad goes there twice a year.

Picks out the hams he wants.” It’s sweet and soft, almost like a silky fabric.

With this he pairs an aged sheep’s milk cheese called Moliterno.

I overhear a man next to me saying that he’d buy the whole store if he could. Peter agrees, facetiously referencing student debt. Sal grins. “I managed to avoid that.”

Before I know it, I’m chasing Sal and Peter through the pasta aisle to the front of the store. Peter’s mouth

is practically hanging open as Sal recounts the time they used a forklift to hoist an eight-hundred-pound cylinder of cheese into the shop to be hung from a piping system overhead. He goes on to describe a wheel of Crucolo, a soft Italian cheese from the Alps, that “literally looked like a monster truck tire.”

At our request, he uses his arms to give us size estimates.

When we ask him how one cuts into such a cheese, he tells us there’s only one way to do it: essentially, to be one with the cheese. “I always like it when people just leave me alone. Just give me the piece of cheese, stay back there. I don’t need your comments,” he pauses to greet a customer, and continues.

“I’ve been doing this since I was this big,” holding his hand at his waist. He goes on to describe the difficulties of cutting cheese to weight, but assures us it’s something you just get the hang of with time.

Newer Mike passes Sal, holding a slab of meat. Sal juts his head in the other man’s direction. “Mike’s still working on it.”

“I’m the best here!” Mike retorts.

The customers beside us, who have been following Sal’s demonstrations, laugh too.

Behind them, I notice a map of Italy

and a framed black-and-white photo of a man leaning on a wooden fence. He looks pensive, but not at all unkind.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s my dad,” Sal answers. “He’s in Italy right now.” On the heels of some other questions, he adds, “They’re afraid to let me go, though, because I might not come back.”

After our last taste-test—Claudio’s life-changing pesto sauce—we say goodbye to Sal and thank him for his time. With sincerity, he tells us it’s nothing, but as soon as we’ve left, we see him hop down the front steps, weaving through Italian Market vendors on his way to the warehouse, where he will catch up on the shipments he should’ve started an hour ago.

Seven decades of family customs, chaos, and craft have made Claudio irreplaceable in South Philadelphia, with reach extending from Center City to Jersey. Regular customers make small talk, while new customers are guided through the overage of pastas and prosciuttos. As Peter and I walked out of the shop already planning our next visit, I realized that’s exactly the point: with the scent of fresh food and the commotion of family, anyone who enters Claudio feels at home.

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A plastic to-go container. Flimsy, lined with ridged edges. The contents masked by a clear snap-on lid, clouded by droplets of condensation. An unsuspecting receptacle for one of the best delicacies one’s taste buds might ever experience.

Slowly opening the cover, I am immediately greeted by the mouthwatering aroma of pure deliciousness. Onion, garlic, paprika, and soy, all married together in the perfect blend of cohesive, savory seasoning. Five pieces of beautiful fried chicken, glistening with a light coating of sauce, sandwiched between two hefty scoops of white rice and a serving of macaroni salad. This is Korean fried chicken.

Back home in Hawaii, Korean fried chicken plate lunches are a community staple. Rather than a trendy, “exotic” dish served at a sit-down restaurant, Korean fried chicken is eaten with the same frequency and ease that someone in New York might eat pizza. Though on Oahu there do exist upscale restaurants where Korean fried chicken is served, the most beloved Korean fried chicken establishment among locals is Zippy’s: the ultimate fast casual restaurant chain in Hawaii.

Lined with booths of fraying cherryred upholstery, Zippy’s serves up some

BY SHAE CHAMBERS PHOTOS BY YIN WANG

exterior."

translucent

crispy, almost

by its thin,

is defined

it has managed to attract in recent years. Prior to round one of frying, the chicken is dipped into a light batter.

After about 10 minutes of frying at a low temperature of 350 degrees, the chicken is removed from the oil and shaken vigorously before cooling for 2 minutes; this step effectively slows the cooking process and prevents the crust from over-browning before the meat is fully cooked through.

After a second round of frying for ten minutes, the chicken emerges crispy and golden, browned to perfection.

After a light painting in sauce, which, if done correctly, should be absorbed into the crust without making it soggy, this mouthwatering dish is ready to be consumed. Preferably, alongside a scoop of rice with a glass of soju to wash it down.

If you’re one of the few who have yet to sample this heavenly dish, do your taste buds a favor and give it a try. After consuming a serving of Korean fried chicken, whether it be in the comfort of your own home, a fastcasual restaurant, or a fancy sit-down establishment, I promise that you will be left will both a full stomach and a full heart.

fried chicken

of Hawaii’s most beloved comfort food.

Among local favorites such as chili over rice and Loco Moco (white rice topped with a hamburger patty, fried egg, and brown gravy), Korean fried chicken is one dish under constant high demand. Whether functioning as a quick lunch before hitting the beach, or a 1 am indulgence after a long night out, a Korean fried chicken plate from Zippy’s never disappoints.

For me, the flawlessly crunchy skin, juicy meat, and aromatic sauce characteristic to Korean fried chicken are closely intertwined with fond memories of home. However, as with many other budding food trends like poke or açaí bowls, Korean fried chicken is gaining popularity among the mainland crowd. With chains like Bonchon popping up in cities across the United States, more and more people are gaining exposure to the seductive deliciousness of Korean fried chicken, a dish that puts all other fried chicken to shame. In turn, the emergence of this “new” craze brings up the question: what makes Korean fried chicken so irresistible?

Korean fried chicken is radically different from the typical, Southern American fried chicken with which you might be accustomed. In contrast to classic fried chicken, with its heavy, thick breading, Korean fried chicken is defined by its thin, crispy, almost translucent exterior that somehow maintains its crunchiness even when lathered in sauce. The secret? It’s twice-fried for ideal, crispy excellence on the outside and tender, juicy tastiness on the inside.

Korean fried chicken preparation reflects a popular Asian frying technique that renders out the fat in the skin, thus creating the thin, crackly crust that makes Korean fried chicken worthy of the cult following

"Korean

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