The Rake Magazine

I'll admit it's not a big sacrifice on my part — my consumption of Junior Whoppers and Spicy Chicken Patties works out to about one sandwich a year. But after reading Eric Schlosser's op-ed piece in The New York Times about the giant fast food company's refusal to pay an extra penny a pound for the tomatoes harvested by migrant workers in Florida, I'm taking the pledge — no more BK until they do the right thing.

According to this news story in the Times, both McDonald's and Yum Brands, which owns Taco Bell, agreed to a deal negotiated with the Coalition of Immokalee Workers, to pay an additional penny a pound for tomatoes, with the proceeds passed along to the farm workers. That deal has been in effect since 2005, and McDonald's joined this year. It's not making the farmworkers rich, by any means - according to a Coalition of Immokalee Workers report, tomato pickers earn, on average, $10,000/year. The piece rate of 45 cents per 32 pound bucket of tomatoes hasn't increased since 1980, which means that the farm workers have to pick more than twice as many buckets as they did in 1980 to earn minimum wage.

The penny a pound deal only covers a small fraction of Florida's migrant tomato pickers, and even after the increase, their earnings are still at the poverty level. But the deal may fall apart because Burger King has refused to sign on, and the Florida Tomato Growers Exchange is threatening growers who participate with a $100,000 fine. The Tomato Growers call the surcharge "un-American" and say that allowing the surcharge would violate anti-trust and labor laws. But according to one legal expert quoted by the Times, it's the tomato growers who may be violating anti-trust laws, by preventing their members from participating.

Responding to a reporter for the DeLand-Delton Beacon, a Burger King spokesperson said that "Any dispute over wages and pay should be settled between the employer and employee, and Burger King is not a party to this dispute." But as Schlosser points out, Burger King doesn't hesitate to tell its suppliers how to treat their livestock - if Taco Bell and McDonald's can sign on to fairer wages for the people who harvest their tomatoes, so can Burger King.

And if the moral argument doesn't persuade you to skip those spicy chicken patties, maybe a look at their ingredient list will:

Chicken breasts with rib meat, Water, Salt, Monosodium Glutamate, Flavors, Chicken Fat, Propylene Glycol, Water, Sunflower Oil, Artificial Flavors, Sodium Lactate, Autolyzed Yeast Extract, Chicken Broth, Polysorbate 60, Polysorbate 80, Sodium Hydroxide, Medium Chain Triglycerides, Sodium Phosphate, Salt, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean & Cottonseed Oil, Papain, Chicken Powder, & Thiamine Hydrochloride, Flavoring. Breaded with: Bleached Wheat Flour, Enriched Wheat Flour (Enriched with Niacin, Ferrous Sulfate, Thiamine Mononitrate, Riboflavin, Folic Acid), Salt, Spice, Dextrose, Leavening (Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate, Sodium Bicarbonate) Onion Powder, Garlic Powder, Extractives of Paprika, Soybean Oil, set in Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil. Battered with: Water, Bleached Wheat Flour, Modified Corn Starch, Salt, Spices, Leavening (Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate, Sodium Bicarbonate), Soybean Oil, Onion Powder, Dextrin, Extractives of Paprika, Yellow 6, Red 40 Lake, Natural & Artificial Flavor (Including Butter Flavor), Lactic Acid, Not more than 2% Sodium Silico Aluminate added to prevent caking. Predusted With: Wheat Flour, Modified Corn Starch, Salt, Wheat Gluten, Spice, Extractives of Paprika, Soybean Oil, Onion Powder, Not More Than 2% Silicon Dioxide Added to Prevent Caking. Contains: Wheat.

When my friends David and Grant moved here from Manhattan during a flat, frigid stretch of January 2006, I assured them there were plenty of wonderful restaurants in the Twin Cities where they could occupy themselves during the winter. Try La Belle Vie, I said. Heartland, Restaurant Alma, Five (now closed), Cosmos, and Fugaise.

I'll admit, I was trying hard to convince them we aren't rubes here in Minnesota. We don't eat pork chops and boiled potatoes at every meal. We have great restaurants, too!

They followed my instructions and dined around. But by February, the two men had a recommendation for me: duplex, they said, was by far their favorite local place. A small, glowing bistro on Hennepin Avenue — located in the old Pandora's Cup coffeehouse (which was, I'm suspecting, a duplex when originally built) — it was close to their Kenwood home, cozy, warm, and consistent in serving great, mostly locally-grown, healthy-yet-tasty fare.

Indeed, my partner Jeremy Iggers, wrote a review of duplex back when he was at the Strib that said in part:

The world would certainly be a better place if more people asked themselves the question, "What can I do today to make Jeremy Iggers, restaurant critic for the Star Tribune, a happy guy?" At least, it would be a better place for me. I'm not claiming that the owners of duplex, the intimate new Uptown dining spot, actually designed their restaurant with me in mind, but they definitely pushed all the right buttons.

If you haven't tried duplex yet, I suggest you sign up for one of several upcoming wine dinners. The first — which is being served this week, starting tonight, November 29, and going through Saturday, the 31st — features a five-course menu from Spain:

Ajoblanco de Málaga (garlic cream soup with almonds)

Revueltos (eggs scrambled with mushrooms and shrimp)

Remajon (orange and cod salad with red onions and green olives)

Pollo al Chilindrón (chicken with tomato, peppers and Serrano ham)

and

Cinnamon Flan

This meal, with wine, is priced at an unbelievable $37. Subsequent dinners will feature the cuisines of Italy, France, and the American Midwest.

For reservations, or more information, call duplex at 612-381-0700.

 

Let us consider this waiter in the cafe. His movement is quick and forward, a little too precise, a little too rapid. He bends forward a little too eagerly; his voice, his eyes express an interest a little too solicitous for the order of the customer. He is playing, he is amusing himself. But what is he playing? We need not watch long before we can explain it: he is playing at being a waiter in a cafe. There is nothing there to surprise us."

— Jean-Paul Sartre, from Being and Nothingness

All fine dining has an element of theater, and fantasy: you make believe you are in a bistro in Paris, the waiters pretend you are somebody really important. Unless either the waiter or the customer takes themselves too seriously, everybody knows it’s just play. The plot thickens a bit when the guy who plays the customer is actually a restaurant critic pretending not to be a restaurant critic, and the staff who play waiters and hosts are all pretending that they don’t know that the guy at table four is a restaurant critic.

Our waitress spotted me the minute we walked in the door at Meritage, but I didn’t figure this out until chef-owner Russell Klein (formerly of W.A. Frost) came up and introduced himself at the end of the evening. In the meantime, we had a great time – great food, smart service – and the very enjoyable sense that everybody involved in the restaurant was having fun, and not taking themselves too seriously. Our server, Mel,was prompt, attentive, and knowledgeable about the food and wine – and at the same time quirky and funny, and seemed to be playing her role with a wink. It is just theater after all. Haven’t we seen you somewhere before, my wife asked? Yes, she waited on us once at Toast – she remembered serving my wife, and she thought maybe I was there too.

The dapper maitre d’, Ross, brought around a trolley to show Meritage’s “cheese program” – a selection of five fromages, including a Roquefort, a Tomme chevre washed in Muscadet, a Brie de Meaux, another flavored with walnut liqueur, and a Vermont cave-aged Shepard cheddar, each available for $5 an ounce. Mel confided in a conspiratorial tone that Ross had actually been Mariah Carey’s private butler. Mel said this was not for publication, but when I spoke to Ross later, he volunteered the fact, and said it was okay to publish. In any case, he played the part perfectly, with just the right air of gravitas. He also told me that his full title is maitre de fromage.

Meritage looks about the same as it did when it was A Rebours, and it still presents itself as a French bistro. Klein got his formal training at the French Culinary Institute in New York City, so when it comes to cassoulet and coq au vin, (Tuesdays, $22) he knows his stuff. But he’s not taking any of this stuff too seriously, either. Klein takes the idea of a bistro and plays with it, subvert it, serving up matzo ball soup and a classic American burger with fries alongside the foie gras and cassoulet, and offering a matzo and nutella sandwich for dessert.

The food was delightful. Klein didn’t actually cook for us - he spent the evening at a nearby table, having dinner with his wife, Desta, who doubles as hostess and bartender, and his mother, who was visiting from out of town. Good for him – he has his priorities in order. The rest of the kitchen crew did just fine. I started with one of bite-sized “amusements” – a tiny tuna tartare taco, followed by a juicy 1/3 pound burger, enlivened with chopped onions and a dash of Worcestershire, and a generous pile of fries on the side.

Vegetarian entrees often seem like an afterthought, but Klein’s “composition of autumn vegetables” ($16) was an inspired combination: a short stack of small pumpkin pancakes accompanied by a sunchoke frittata of caramelized Brussels sprouts and carrots. Our other entrée was a winner as well:– four large scallops, topped with toasted hazelnuts, accompanied by kale, squash, white beans and a brown butter sauce ($25). Ordering scallops at local restaurants seems to be a lot like Russian roulette, with about four chambers loaded: most of the time, you get “wet-packed” scallops, treated with sodium tri-poly phosphate, which makes them retain water (so they can be sold more cheaply), but robs them of their sweetness. To judge by the sweet succulent flavor, these were dry-packed.

We finished with a couple more bite-sized amusements – the nutella matzo sandwich, and a tiny cup of espresso mousse. Next time, I’ll save room for one of the more ambitious dessert offerings, like the warm chocolate hazelnut cake served with a salty caramel ice cream or the chilled grand marnier soufflee (both $7).

 

It's #128 on Amazon, so I'm guessing this book will appear under many tinsel-frocked Christmas trees — My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals, by Melanie Dunea — a thick, lush photo, interview, recipe volume that's been described as Annie Liebowitz meets Heat.

The conceit here is that 50 chefs, ranging from Jaques Pépin to Gary Danko to Nobu himself, were asked to imagine they would die the following morning and instructed to plot out their final fantasy meal.

Here's a portion of the publisher's description:

Chefs have been playing the “My Last Supper” game among themselves for decades, if not centuries, but it had always been kept within the profession until now. Melanie Dunea came up with the ingenious idea to ask fifty of the world’s famous chefs to let her in on this insider’s game and tell her what their final meals would be. My Last Supper showcases their fascinating answers alongside stunning Vanity Fair–style portraits. Their responses are surprising, refreshing, and as distinct from each other as the chefs themselves. The portraits — gorgeous, intimate, and playful — are informed by their answers and reveal the passions and personalities of the most respected names in the business. Lastly, one recipe from each landmark meal is included in the back of the book. With My Last Supper, Dunea found a way into the typically harried, hidden minds of the people who have turned preparing food into an art. Who wouldn’t want to know where Alain Ducasse would like his supper to be? And who would prepare Daniel Boulud’s final meal? What would Anthony Bourdain’s guest list look like? As the clock ticked, what album would Gordon Ramsay be listening to? And just what would Mario Batali eat for the last time?

Curious, I looked up the menu for the actual last supper -- which was, of course, a Passover seder meal. No one knows for sure, but it probably included unleavened bread, lamb with bitter herbs, saltwater, and wine. This was a supper at which the shared cup symbolized a "new and eternal covenant," an era in which everyone would be redeemed, heart, mind, and soul.

Now, this sounds far loftier to me than the truffles, foie gras, blowfish, and (believe it or not) hotdogs the celebrity chefs of Dunea's book listed among their desires. But in the absence of bread and wine consecrated by a prophet, I think I'd have to go with either the Salade Chinoise from Vincent A Restaurant followed by Alex Roberts' roasted duck with Brussels sprouts, or carryout from Pizza Lucé with a really nice Côtes du Rhône.

Anyone else care to contribute a recommendation for last-day-of-life dining in the Twin Cities metro?

I recall sitting in a long, dull editorial meeting one Monday afternoon. It was around 4:30; a dozen writerly types, all disengaged. Our eyes were darting between our watches and the door. Then, the editor gave us the topic for our annual food issue: Best Pizza. Suddenly, everyone in the room perked up and had something to say.

What is it about pizza? Not only is it a strikingly perfect meal: if you assemble it correctly, all five food groups are represented in more or less the right ratio. But it seems to strike an emotional chord with just about everyone in the free world.

That it is the preferred late-night nosh of college students seems right to me, too. These are kids -- really -- away from home for the first time. There could be nothing more comforting than a warm slice, bubbling with cheese, to take the edge off worry about exams and dating and that touch of homesickness to which none of them want to admit.

I saw this demonstrated just last week, when I mentioned to my creative writing class at Macalester that Papa John's has now made it possible to order a pizza by text message. Half the students in my class rose off their chairs, as if they couldn't possibly make it through the next hour of lecture; they simply had to leave and code in an order for a large pepperoni with onion and green pepper.

Talk about your savvy marketing campaigns! Papa John's not only has the most active Internet ordering system of any pizza purveyor (it's advertised during Heroes -- how much more exposure can you get -- and statistics show one in five PJ pizzas is now ordered online), the company has hooked into the Millennium Generation's favorite method of communication.

There is nothing new about any of this. Pizza has long been unique among restaurant food offerings: it's the only item available for delivery to your hotel room, dormitory, house or apartment door in nearly every city, township, and village in the United States. And certain beloved pizzamakers are willing to go to great lengths to ship their product directly to you.

How do I know this? Because I have a personal pizza story of my own:

Back in April, I was on a college fact-finding trip with my younger son, who was then a junior in high school. It had been a tough year. Max was a varsity football player who got laid up with a nearly fatal staph infection, missed the final game of the season, and confessed to us that he'd always hated football and he was just as glad. . . .This explained a lot: the moodiness and testosterone bursts and mediocre grades we'd been seeing out of this heretofore model kid.

Things were still a little tense, even when we left for our trek through Wisconsin, Michigan, and Illinois. This was supposed to be our chance to bond -- mother and son -- getting back to where we were before the fall from hell. We drove to Madison and had a fine time. Then we went to Ann Arbor, and it was as if the heavens opened up and angel trumpets began to blare. Max was entranced. He met with professors and took every tour and dragged me to a falafel place on the far side of town.

"This is where I want to go," he told me that night over dinner. "There's no need to visit Northwestern; let's just go to Gino's instead."

He'd been talking about Gino's since we planned the trip. "It's the best pizza in Chicago, probably in the country, maybe in the world." But I -- the responsible mother -- was having none of this. "We came to visit colleges," I told him, "not eat pizza."

We set off the next day for Northwestern. I'd programmed it into the GPS and allotted just enough to get there for our scheduled tour at noon. But as we drew closer to Chicago, something clearly went wrong. The GPS kept directing me toward downtown, though I knew the university was in a place called Evanston. Finally, around 11:30, I pulled over and asked someone.

"You're a good hour and a half from Northwestern," she told me. "There's no way you're getting there by noon."

I was furious -- at myself. I told Max I was going to find a coffeeshop where I could call the admissions office to get good directions and see if I could postpone our tour. I turned left, then right, then left again, and then I heard Max shout, "There it is! I don't believe it. . . .you got us to Gino's! See? It was meant to happen."

Well, there it was. Indeed. And I had to make a split-second decision. Should I stick to my guns and drag the kid to Northwestern, risking our fragile new relationship; or should I go with the flow and share in his sense of divine guidance?

Let's just say: The pizza was really, really good. The lightest upside-down deep-dish I've ever eaten, it had a savory cornmeal crust and lots of tangy tomato sauce. And the best part is, you can have it shipped to you anywhere in the country.

My son wears his Michigan sweatshirt proudly, but his other memento from that trip is the black marker I bought him to sign Gino's wall.