Author: Stephanie March

What is it about cows and cowboys that make us wax rhapsodic? It seems they beget legend and lore, or at least they did in the days when the sight of a herd breaking over a hill, with unshaven, grizzly men on horseback driving them in, could bring a tear to any Pappy’s eye. Maybe because the plains are being eaten up by thousand-acre CEO retreats, or maybe because people think of salad dressing when they hear the word “ranch,” or maybe because of the proliferation of places like Steak ’n Shake—whatever the reason, the romance and appreciation that attend tucking into a beautiful steak have almost disappeared. One may wonder if, in this age of information and globalization, there is any room left for myths and mystery. Enter the Japanese.

In the mid-nineties, rumors and mutterings about a superior breed of beef cattle from the Far East began surfacing in the food world. Soon enough, Kobe beef started popping up on influential menus at astronomical prices, upwards of two hundred dollars per pound. It was said to have a mind-boggling texture and flavor, unrivaled by any steak one could sink one’s teeth into in the U.S. Along with the beef came the stories: tales of secret Japanese traditions, including cows fed with beer, massaged with sake, and soothed with classical music. It seemed fantastic, and not at all cowboy-ish. The New Age myths began to take hold. Could a soused cow be the secret to heavenly steak? A sake massage might do many of us well and turn around our disposition, but can it make us tastier? Is it possible that the beef’s divinity comes from inebriated bovine divas sloshing in Sapporo? Or is it simply a matter of genetics?

Japanese history tells of cattle imported in the second century as labor animals to aid in rice cultivation. Because of the mountainous terrain, their passage was slow, leading to small, pocketed herds among isolated villages. Cross-breeding was common until the early 1600s, when the Shogun officially closed the national herd due to unwanted foreign influences. It has remained closed to this day, except for a brief period of importation during the Meiji Restoration in the late 1800s.

These mysterious cattle, known as Wagyu (“wa” meaning Japanese and “gyu” meaning cow), are the breed that provides the famed Kobe beef. As with Champagne and Parmigiano Reggiano, however, the criteria for true Kobe beef is partly geographic. The Wagyu must come from the Hyogo Prefecture, whose capital city is Kobe, and also conform to traditions and strict standards of the Prefecture Council.

Isolated herdsmen of each region within Hyogo tended to develop distinctive breeding and feeding traditions, which they are still hard-pressed to reveal. Some have hinted that feeding the cattle beer stimulates their appetites during the warm months. Others claim that sake simply makes the hide attractively shiny, thereby fetching a higher price for the beast. Whatever they may be, the enchanted techniques of the Kobe herdsmen deliver not only on flavor, but also on softness. More than merely tender, Kobe beef is supremely velvety; it has been and still is the standard bearer for highest quality in the world.

When you first look at a cut of Kobe beef, your extra-lean training from the supermarket may give you pause. The meat is richly streaked with white fat (the good, unsaturated kind, for those still cautious about the “F” word), which means that it is luxuriously and audaciously jammed with flavor. Kobe beef is unlike any other steak, and to cook it as such would ruin it. To keep all of its precious fat and flavor from seeping out, the beef is best prepared by simply searing, as you might a steak of ahi tuna. So if you’re the type who orders a filet mignon well done with a side of ketchup, save your money for therapy.

One way the Japanese enjoy Kobe is in the traditional teppanyaki style, by searing on a steel hot plate, or teppan. Two restaurants in the Uptown area, Tonic and Chino Latino, will let you try this on your own, providing sashimi-style slices of Kobe and a hot stone on which to cook it. That said, heed my warning: sear quickly and eat. As for the increasingly popular Kobe burgers, I have yet to find a local version that even comes close to the perfection of one that I ate in Indianapolis (of all places) last year. (If you’re going to serve the King of Burgers, make sure it’s not overcooked, and appears with the right kind of company—no cheap lettuce or flimsy tomatoes as garnish.) The newly opened Mission in the IDS Center, however, is turning out a pastrami made with Kobe beef, and it is all that you hope it to be.

It is largely believed that the genetic predisposition of the Wagyu breed—not just the Kobe strain—produces a higher percentage of unsaturated fats than any other breed, leading to the white, streaky marbling that packs each bite with flavor. Americans are counting on this important fact, because unless you are physically in Japan, the “Kobe” beef you are eating probably came from Wagyu cows in Oregon. Does that mean the geisha girls giving sake hoof massages wear fleece and drink double espressos? Most likely, since there has been a ban on Japanese beef imports since 2001.

However, American Wagyu producers have been working for more than twenty years to perfect Japanese traditions in creating their Kobe(-style) beef. Eventually, it will be known by its correct name—Wagyu—but in its infancy with the American palate, “Kobe” has become the word that most people understand. Comparisons of the American version with true Japanese Kobe have generated much discussion and many opinions, all of which have been duly inflamed by national pride and a two-way beef trade embargo. I say we duke it out cowboy style, over bourbon and karaoke.

Don’t let the imposters win. You are encouraging their success when you order a rum and Coke and settle for Shasta. When you allow people to offer a cup of java, then serve up Folgers crystals. The worst offense is to say “pass the Parmesan” as you’re looking at a rotund shaker of a fluffy white substance like artificial snow. These substances are not so much fake as they are shadows of a truer form. The cheese in that shaker at the pizza joint or in the green cylinder jar at the supermarket has almost nothing to do with the cheese it purports to be. Unfortunately, the phony version has more fame, not unlike a certain leggy, blonde Law & Order actress with the same name as a certain short, sassy, rakish food writer. But if the masses knew the flavorful and amazing truth about the original, they’d shun the green jar and grab their graters.

“Parmesan” has unfortunately become a general term for Italian-style grated cheese. Parmigiano-Reggiano is the true name for the cheese you think you shake so well. Like Champagne or Bourbon, Parmigiano-Reggiano is named for the area in which it is produced, in the River Po River valley in Italy’s Emilia-Romagna province. The same cheese produced outside this region is called Grana Padano. The art of the cheesemaker has remained the same for more than eight hundred years, and it all began in a place called Parma.

A story from Boccaccio’s Decameron, written around 1350, tells of a city by a mountain made of cheese. The good people of the mountain did nothing but make macaroni and ravioli, rolling the gifts down the peak to the hungry below. Ah, Parma. History is littered with instances of the appreciation of Parmigiano, in Italy and abroad. Taillevent, one of the first French cookbook authors, uses the cheese abundantly. Some accounts of Molière’s death witness him asking for a slice of the heavenly cheese on his deathbed.

In 1400, the humanist Platina observed that Italy’s most renowned cheese, Parmigiano, was also called maggengo because it was produced in the month of May. By his time, the process had already been perfected for some two hundred years, and it is the identical process that is used today.

Today’s artisans could be tempted by mechanization, but most still use milk, heat, and tradition to turn a good cheese.
High-quality milk is one of the secrets to parm. The cows eat well, munching young grasses, herbs, and flowers in the spring and robust grasses and straw come autumn. Cheeses produced with spring milk have a lower butterfat content and may be drier and lighter than winter’s, but will also have a more delicate flavor. Milk’s butterfat is highest in the fall, lending the cheeses of October and November a deeper color and more intense flavor.

The weather in Emilia-Romagna is another deciding factor. The humidity and variations of temperature help activate enzymes in the cheese that are responsible for creating its unique characteristics of flavor, color, aroma, and granular texture. Patience is another virtue of true Parmigiano, which takes from twelve to thirty-six months to mature. The standard chunk you buy will likely have basted in Italian breezes for eighteen to twenty-four months. Kraft proudly ages the stuff in its green jars for six months.

The final factor is love. It’s the love of a process that requires myriad subtle and delicate operations in which a tiny variance could affect quality and value. Rigorous testing by the Consorzio del Parmigiano-Reggiano, a group that’s quite serious about cheese, decides whether the labor of love is a worthy one. If a one-year sampling of cheese fails the standard testing, it is stripped of its rind and not allowed export.

Parmagiano-Reggiano is born as a seventy- to eighty-pound wheel whose rind is iron-branded with the Consorzio-approved stamp, the farm code and the date of production. By law, every piece cut from the wheel should have some marking on it (make sure you can see the rind on any piece you buy, or see the wheel from which it was cut). Then the cheese will fall into one of three categories. “Prima Stagionatura” identifies a cheese with a minor defect, but one still good enough for market; its rind is marked with parallel lines. “Extra” gets an oval stamp certifying at least eighteen months of ageing. “Export” is stamped as such and signifies first-grade quality after eighteen months.

While most think of Parmigiano in its grated form, let’s please think outside the shaker. This cheese is wonderful shaved into thin slices and eaten with fresh fruit—pears and Granny Smith apples are ideal. There is nothing better than a beef carpaccio with capers and thin, blond shavings of Parm, which, at Arezzo Ristorante, is something they do fairly well. I recently watched (and later dreamt of) my chef-husband tossing warm fettuccini in the belly of a carved-out wheel of Parmigiano, the cheese melting slightly and coating the pasta.
Want your own wheel? It can cost $800 to $1,200, without shipping. Scott Pikovsky of Great Ciao imports all sorts of crazy goodness from the Mediterranean area. Otherwise, for a slice here and there try some of the local Italian shops like Delmonico’s or Buon Giorno Italia. Even Lunds and Byerly’s have stepped up with good cheese. If you think grating your own is a bother, and you’re tempted to grab the “domestic Parmesan,” you may want to recall a colorful proverb from your childhood: Mr. Yuk is mean, Mr. Yuk is green.

During a lecture to a Harvard class, philosopher George Santayana happened to glance out the window and spot a burgeoning forsythia in a patch of snow. Heading to the door, he declared, “I shall not be able to finish that sentence. I have just discovered that I have an appointment with April.” She’s a sassy month, this April—and also sacred to the goddess Venus. Her name is derived from the Latin word aperire, “to open.” The so-called cruelest month is full of hope (brightly shining sun and baseball’s season opener), albeit appropriately tempered with a bit of dread (the occasional three-inch snowfall and the culmination of tax season). But those of us cloistered for the past five months cling to the openness and hope as we Rollerblade in shorts when it hits fifty degrees and call for patio reservations while snow is still on the ground. We turn our faces to the sun, reaching outward and upward in a burst of revival and celebration. We are the asparagus of life.

For the gardener, there is no better harbinger of spring than asparagus. While the rest of the garden remains frustratingly unproductive, asparagus tips poke up through the dirt for a friendly hello. Under the right conditions, the spears can grow up to ten inches in a single day, sparking excitement and the planning of menus. Indeed, to feast in spring without asparagus would be merely to vivre without the joie.

A member of the lily family, asparagus officinalis grows wild throughout Europe and Asia, a fact that makes it hard to pinpoint its origin. However, asparagus’ proliferation along the banks of rivers and near salt marshes make the Mediterranean region a good bet. Actually, the cultivation process that is used today is based on the practices of early Greeks and Romans, who sought the spears for culinary and medicinal purposes. Believed to cure toothaches, heart disease, and dropsy, asparagus became important enough for the Romans to designate a special fleet to carry the spears to far-off troops. And millennia before Clarence Birdseye, they found a way to freeze the vegetable, by running loaded chariots from the Tiber River valley to the snowline of the Alps. A huge fan of both asparagus and haste, the emperor Augustus had a habit of ordering executions to be carried out “quicker than you can cook asparagus.”

France’s Louis XIV was also mad for the plant. He ordered his gardeners to grow it in hothouses at Versailles so that he could eat it year-round. Asparagus became all the rage in France, and even today there are festivals and celebrations dedicated to the tender stalks throughout Europe. German restaurants are known to add a special asparagus menu, or Spargelkarte, during the spring harvest months.

“Sparrow grass” distinctly lacking in green has long been popular in Europe, and is gaining presence on our shores. You might have seen them around, these white asparagus, and wondered what went wrong. And why are these albino mutants so expensive? Sometime in the 1600s, the French started cultivating asparagus, basically, in the dark. They mounded earth around the spears as they pushed forth to keep them sheltered from the sun. Without sun, the plant’s chlorophyll doesn’t react to turn the shoot green (while the labor-intensive process does justify the higher price). The result, a pale ivory spear that may be tinged with yellow or purple at the tip, remains the choice of most connoisseurs, as its flavor tends to be a bit nuttier and earthier than its colorful counterpart.

Whether white or green, the key to good Spargel is cooking time. The most common preparation is a quick boil, three to five minutes depending on thickness. Spears should be a lovely bright green with a measure of crispness left in the bite. Dullish, army-green spears of a flaccid nature must be banished. But to really bring out asparagus’ charming and vivid flavors, roll the trimmed spears in some olive oil, place in a pan and roast in a ferociously hot oven (450 degrees) until they are a bit wilted and turning sweet and brown at the tips (fifteen to twenty minutes). Sprinkle the spears with sea salt and wrap them in Spanish Jamon ham, like you know you want to.

As for that most unpleasant side effect of asparagus, the Traite des Alimens, published in 1702, proclaimed “Sparagrass eaten to Excess sharpen the Humours and heat a little … They cause a filthy and disagreeable Smell in the Urine, as every Body knows.” In other words, it is believed that the methanethiol molecules in asparagus cause the distinctive stinky urine in the eater. But apparently not every Body does know: While nearly all asparagus eaters are affected, not all are able to detect the odor.

Surely the best way to commemorate the vivacity of April is to mark it with the reawakening of the farmers’ markets. This year the St. Paul Farmers’ Market celebrates its 150th anniversary. Get down to Lowertown and buy some asparagus from the folks at Costa Farms, a third-generation producer in the Stillwater area that has been a regular at the market since 1917. If you can’t find white spears there, head to a Kowalski’s Market. They buy from local producers and promise to have the palest of the pale. If nothing else, even for one day, poke your head out, face toward the sun, and dream of asparagus.

Sitting at the Ideal Diner in the spring can be anything but. In this Northeast Minneapolis joint there is the counter and there is the cooking line, and that’s it. Perched on a prize stool, you are simultaneously warmed by the remarkable heat emanating from the grill and chilled by the rush of cold air from the swinging door behind you. But it is there, trapped in the nexus of fire and frost, that you might meet a wizened sage, your oracle, also known as the short-order cook. You may enter as a skeptic, sizing up the grease-stained apron and witnessing the alarming use of lard in the hash browns while perusing the spotted menu. But all you need do is clear your mind, center yourself and order two poached eggs on toast. His reply, “Adam and Eve on a raft, coming up,” signals that you are in the presence of greatness.

Who else but a philosopher, a truth-seeker, would have such insight into the symbolism of eggs? He could have called them “two googly eyes on a raft” or “double sun in the clouds.” But he didn’t, he gave them monikers synonymous with creation. As the moist spring air whips the door open one more time, you may wonder if he has the answer to the ultimate question, the question of life itself: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

On the food timeline, eggs are as old as salt and water. Eggs, and the birds that laid them, were around before there were humans to write about them. The first domestication of fowl is believed to have taken place somewhere in India around 3200 BC. The Egyptians and Chinese both record egg production around 1400 BC.

Although we agree when we speak of eggs we are speaking of chicken eggs, it is important to know that oology, the study of eggs, covers all kinds. So in the broadest oological sense, duck eggs are quite popular among enthusiastic egg-eaters, as are goose and quail eggs. Turkey eggs are rarely available to the consumer, as most are hatched, and ostrich eggs are sold primarily for use in very large novelty omelets. As for rattlesnake eggs, let’s just move on.

It seems that as long as humans have been consuming eggs, they have been consumed by their spiritual nature, their symbolism and connection to the divine. The Phoenician creation myth tells of a very large egg splitting open, its two halves becoming heaven and earth. The idea of the egg as a self-renewing model of the cosmos is central to many ancient religions. Hindu writings tell of deities Brahma and Prajapati each forming an egg and then emerging from it. Egyptian hieroglyphics often depict the god Osiris being reborn from a broken eggshell. Probably the best-known legend is that of the Phoenix, which, in the tale from Greek historian Herodotus, died in a rage of flame and was reborn from an egg it had laid.

Rebirth was a crucial belief among early civilizations, which celebrated it every year when the earth went through her own springtime regeneration. The sun’s return after a dark winter was a miracle, and the egg became emblematic proof of the renewal of life. Celtic tribes observed the vernal equinox with a feast including red-dyed eggs, whose shells were vigilantly crushed to ward off cold weather. With the spread of Christianity and the assimilation of local traditions, the egg came to symbolize Christ’s resurrection from the tomb, also celebrated in the spring. “Easter” is believed to originate from Oestar, an ancient goddess of spring and renewal.

Eggs were among the first forbidden foods of Lent, making them a special treat at the subsequent Easter feast. In many Eastern European countries, people carried baskets of food, which usually included eggs, to church to be blessed before their preparation. It was considered a special gesture to give someone an egg, especially a decorated one. By the sixteenth century, the court of France was commissioning ornately decorated eggs from famed artists—an art form that reached its apex in the late nineteenth century, when the czar of Russia had his court jeweler, Carl Fabergé, create incomparable eggs encrusted with gold, crystals, and gems. As for the bunny? Blame those crazy pagans, who saw the rabbit as a symbol of fertility and new life, and kooky Germans, who believed that a magical rabbit would bring them a nest of eggs if they were good during Lent.

Even without the symbolism, the egg is the perfect food. Nature designed it as a total life support system, so it contains nearly every nutrient thought to be vital to humans. The proteins in egg whites are of such high quality that they are held as a benchmark for all other food proteins. The yolk provides goodies like vitamins A, D, E, and B12, as well as folic acid, iron, and zinc. True, the yolk also contains fat and cholesterol, but as long as you don’t eat fifty eggs you should be fine. Nobody can eat fifty eggs.

How your egg looks depends on who dropped it. Chickens with white feathers lay white eggs, naturally enough, while those from red-feathered breeds are brown. The yolk’s color may change with the diet of the hen—for instance, marigold petals are added to feed for a brighter yellow. Many of us have had the luck to crack a double-yolk egg, but few have cracked an egg with no yolk, which is rare but not impossible.

Now that various diets are leading people away from carbohydrates and toward proteins, the egg is having a rebirth of its own. Some places, such as local favorite The Egg & I, will always bring you eggy delight. I say go soft-boiled and do some toast dipping. For a truly spiritual experience, try the soft scrambled eggs over cured salmon at Solera. How they get them so silky and delicate is a true mystery of life.

Casanova was a scoundrel. He was a scalawag, banned from Venice and disqualified from a career with the Church. He scammed rich and poor alike at every turn. And he was a lawyer. Yet, if he were to make a few appearances between now and November, he might get elected president. For despite all his failings, or maybe because of them, Giovanni Giacomo Casanova knew how to make the ladies smile. By his own account in his famous History of My Life, he canoodled with 122 or so lovelies, from nuns to noblewomen. Though some think gossip fueled much of the reputation that made him such a titillating figure in Europe’s eighteenth-century society, many more pore over his multi-volume memoirs looking for the secret to his amorous success. These Casanovitiates try to emulate his behavior in hopes of getting similar results. Of course, to truly follow his lead, they’d have to squander fortunes, be imprisoned in numerous European cities, lie, cheat, steal, and eat at least fifty raw oysters a day. To some, it is the latter that is most reprehensible.

Throwing back more than a dozen raw oysters before every meal was de rigueur for Casanova. Some of his most pleasurable memories have him eating them in the bathtub (not by himself, of course). Could this be the secret to his potency? Ever since Aphrodite, the goddess of Love, sprang forth from the sea foam on an oyster shell, giving us Eros, oysters have been known as an aphrodisiac. In this day and age, the era of Viagra and the Penis Enlargement Patch, it seems almost too easy to just suck down a few oysters and have a roll in the hay. But perhaps slippery things aren’t for beginners. Quite possibly, they’re advanced cuisine and meant only for those serious about the arts of eating and love.

To quote Jonathan Swift, “He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.” It seems astonishing that someone could find along the shore an object that looks like a rock, pry it open, and think the viscous contents fit to eat. The first connoisseurs had to be the Romans, who were so passionate for the bivalves that they sent scores of slaves to gather them from the English Channel and paid their weight in gold. Aristotle first tried to understand how they bred in 320 B.C., when he described their spontaneous generation. While oysters do have gender, they may change their sex a few times throughout their life. An oyster releases “spat,” which must attach itself to a fixed object like a rock, tree roots, or pilings in order to grow into another oyster.

The old oyster code declared that one should never eat an oyster in a month without an r, namely May through August. Whether that was because of natural breeding schedules or poor refrigeration in hot months, it’s no concern now. Today’s farming techniques and health codes allow us to slurp oysters all year long.

There are three general classifications of oysters: Atlantic, Pacific, and Olympia. Within each classification are hundreds of varieties named for the specific waters in which the members of the Ostreidae family grow. As oysters filter their surrounding waters, they take on properties of the area. An oyster grown in Chincoteague Bay will have different flavors from one grown near Pine Island.

Atlantic oysters are also generally known as Blue Points. To many, they provide the quintessential oyster experience. The cold waters of the eastern seaboard lend a clean, salty taste and firmer flesh, best for eating raw. Good bets include Malpeque, with its bright flavor and crisp lettuce finish, and Belon, with a lemony flavor and zingy aftertaste. Also look for Tatamagouche, Glidden Point, Caraquet, and Wellfleet.

Pacific oysters can grow to be twelve inches long and end up as quite a mouthful. But their meat is creamier and mellower than that of their Atlantic brethren and, in some varieties, quite delicate. Totten, Malaspina, and Little Skookum are all great. Plump, smoky, and a touch sweet, Hog’s Island is the most flavorful of the West Coast oysters. Kumamoto should be every oyster virgin’s first. Small and easy to handle, it’s buttery with a fruity finish.

The Olympia is in a class of its own. Native to the Pacific Coast, it naturally grows in Puget Sound. Although small in stature, rarely exceeding two inches, the Olympia has a firm texture and salty, metallic taste. Now let’s face it, it’s the texture that’s scary. (But if you liken it to snot, you should be slapped. Grow up.) Yet there are other things you put in your mouth that, if you think about it, are far more disgusting. Some people are unsure about how to eat an oyster—tilt it back or use a fork, to sauce or not to sauce, and do you chew? Just remember, there is nothing sexier than confidence. Pick up the half shell. You may want to loosen the meat a bit with a fork, but don’t dump out the water. Do a nice, brief squeeze of lemon, bring the shell to your lips, and tip it in. Close your eyes. Think of the ocean and chew your oyster a few times before letting it slip down. Dare to taste the metallic tinge on your tongue and the cucumber in the finish. Do not “shoot” the oyster.

Knowledge is the base of true confidence, and Kitchen Window in Uptown offers classes with Chef Rick Kimmes of Oceanaire, who is a true oyster addict. Now you are ready to get a table with your baby at the romantic and alluring Lurcat. Order a couple of trays, confidently choosing a selection of East and West Coast varieties, and know that not only is it a fun thing to do with your mouth, but oysters contain a lot of zinc, phosphorus, and iodine, which are conducive to stamina. Go, you scalawag!

The Chinese calendar declares that 2004 is the year of the monkey. Anyone born this year will be intelligent, well-liked by everyone, and have success in any field they choose. Lucky monkeys. The loquacious and red-faced Democrats have claimed 2004 as the Year of Change. Athletes and festival purists may see 2004 as the year the Olympics return to Athens. In addition, most of us have our own personal brands for the year, as in 2004: The Year I Run Three Miles Every Damn Day, or 2004: The Year of the Sex Change. But those have more to do with resolutions than an actual annual manifesto. Thus far, nobody has seemed to get it right, so I’m calling it. This 2004 will be a year of complexity and strong reactions, many will peel away the layers of their lives to find their true essence, we’ll see widespread acceptance and global success, and there just might be some tears in the process. For all intents and purposes, this will be the Year of the Onion.

Such a mundane veg for a potentially fantastic year, you say? Maybe you don’t know how emblematic the onion really is. Rotund and ready to roll, the onion has character, not giving in so easily under the knife. It bites back. Once tamed, though, the onion gladly softens, sweetens, and plays backup to other foods, rarely hogging the limelight in most dishes. Sautéed with a bit of garlic, you have the smell of home-cooked memories hanging about. Like any great work of art, onions have been both maligned and exalted by kings, and misunderstood and appreciated by the masses. And they have stood the test of time to land smack-dab on your hot dog in this great year of 2004.

It is actually believed that we’re coming up on more than five thousand years of love for the onion. Most anthropologists agree that the onion probably grew in its wild form throughout the region from Israel to India, where primitive man presumably first pulled them from the earth. The earliest civilizations knew the value of the onion. Egyptians saw in its multilayered skins a symbol of the universe, peeling back the layers of eternity to find the two stems of life’s beginning. The onion appears in art among the feasts of the gods and was a true companion in the tombs of Pharaohs. In 1160 BC, King Ramses IV was mummified with onions in his eye sockets.

Maybe with the return of the Olympics to Greece we’ll see a return to the old practice of competing athletes devouring pounds of onions, drinking onion juice, and rubbing onions all over their bodies in preparation for competition. Maybe not. High-society Romans were the first to brand the onion as peasant food, going as far as passing laws on certain times of day when it was okay to eat onions. Apicius, the first gourmand, does little for the onion, whereas the foot soldiers of the Roman Army wouldn’t go marauding without them.

Easily cultivated in many climates and soil conditions, the onion spread throughout the world. The genus Allium is extensive and includes garlic, shallots, onions, leeks, chives, scallions, and lilies. Since cultivation began, there have been several different sizes and types bred, which has led to much confusion. If all green onions are also scallions, are all scallions green onions? Onions are best lumped into two categories: the round globe onions with single bulbs and the tubular cluster onions. The latter never form bulbs; instead they grow a cluster of stem bases with long green leaves and are referred to as spring onions, oriental onions, green onions and sometimes scallions. But the term “scallions” can also mean young leeks and sometimes the tops of young shallots. These onions are the oldest and most used ingredient in Chinese cooking and the only onion commonly used in Japanese cuisine.

Papery, spherical, and robust, the globe onions are usually bought mature with the dry delicate skin hiding the pungent flesh. The fresher the onion, the milder the flavor, so an older onion with very dark papery skin will have more kick. The basic grocery store set includes Bermuda onions in white or yellow, the usually yellow Spanish onion, and the red Italian onion. And then there are the juicy, sweet debutantes of the onion world that show up every once in a while to steal the show, the Vidalia (which can, its Georgian creators claim, be eaten like an apple) and the wondrous Walla Walla from Washington. These are great starters for those afraid of the onion’s bite. And how does one tame an onion so that no cook shall be reduced to tears? Simply chill the onion for 20 minutes before cutting to slow down those sulphuric compounds, or if you don’t have the time, a welding mask also works.

The very Zen onion often finds its way into sauces and dishes as merely a flavoring agent, propping up the other ingredients with no thought for self glory. But it is this quality that makes it indispensable. The chicken-fried rice at Kinhdo is the best in the free world, in part because of the healthy proliferation of onions. And then there are times when the onion can unexpectedly take center stage, like when you grab a Polish sausage at the Bulldog and heap it with sauerkraut and onions, just to be close to the gods. Then, of course, one of the best ways to enjoy the delightful nuances of the onion is to find a hearty bowl of French onion soup, slathered with melted cheese and crusty croutons. The Panera chain makes a good bowl, but I’d like to suggest a real special sleeper: Keegan’s Irish Pub in Nordeast serves an onion-rich broth topped with a half-inch of the finest Irish cheddar. Yum! My challenge to you this Year of the Onion is twofold, just like the twin hearts of a Texas Sweet 1015: Seek out the best French onion soup in the city and seek in your inner onion.

It’s a child’s privilege—and punishment—to help with the Thanksgiving turkey. The responsibility of assisting in the preparation of the main dish is heady, indeed. Turkey is pretty much the definition of Thanksgiving for many kids, and they may dream of the moment when that golden bird is brought out to the big table and all the hungry eyes turn away from the bird for a momentary glance of appreciation toward the tot who is beaming with pride. It may be this kind of dream that would fuel a blond child of seven to throw her hand up and volunteer for the job.

But when she gets to the kitchen in the morning, forgoing the traditional hot chocolate and parade-watching done by the non-chefs of the house, she discovers a pinkish, pebbly-fleshed monster with a gaping hole. What’s worse, the poor girl learns that it is her job to remove, with her small hands, the creature’s internal organs (cutely nicknamed “giblets” to make her feel better). Her duty is great, and she suffers through, pulling out the neck and dealing with the gizzard, but the reddish, gooshy liver is too much to handle. So she runs screaming from the kitchen. And she is thankful in later years that no one told her then that it was those items that made the gravy taste so good. It would already be a long time until liver would come back into her life.

Livers are appreciated in most cultures and cuisines throughout the world, but consumption is low in North America. Is that because in our quest for ultimate information we know that the liver is the clearinghouse for a body’s toxins? That it secretes bile? Maybe it was the preparation by a million moms who bought beef liver, fried it up with onions, and slapped its stinkiness on a plate in the McCarthy era. For some, liver might just be part of the food-oddities column—classified creepily as “organ meat,” or tucked between the cow tongue and headcheese. The tradeoff is that we are missing out on a global delicacy rich in iron, protein, and vitamin A.

If you want to give liver a chance, get thee to a local butcher. If you haven’t found one in your neighborhood, you can use Clancy’s Meat & Fish (formerly Lippka’s Linden Hills Meat) in Minneapolis. It’s a great little shop. When we’re talking straight liver, the kind that can be successfully fried up with some mushrooms and onions, your best bet is calf’s liver. The younger liver will have a smoother texture and more delicate flavor. Calf’s liver is pinkish, compared to beef liver’s reddish-brown hue, and is much more tender than the elder. Besides beef and calf, the most popular livers are lamb, pork, chicken, and goose. But the true beauty of this organ is how it performs in the hands of an artisan.

OK, maybe chopped liver isn’t necessarily artisanal, but it has been unfairly maligned. (“What am I, chopped livah?!”) Served on Jewish holiday tables for eons, the dish that may contain onions, hard-boiled eggs, and chicken livers is a cultural icon for the laborings and celebrations of life. Spread on a thick piece of rye bread, maybe with a little corned beef, the simple is transformed into the inspired.

Chopping liver is only the beginning. The Germans not only make liverwurst sausage; they also indulge in leberknödel, or liver dumplings. Cod liver oil has been used since at least the eighteenth century as a cure for rheumatism and wasting diseases. It makes you wonder who was the brave soul who first squeezed a fish liver and drank it. Livers are prepared in terrines, pastes, mousse, stuffing, and, of course, pâtés. But of these remarkable preparations, the most delectable has to be that of foie gras.

The original and classic foie gras (fwah grah) is made from goose liver with techniques that date back to the Egyptian dynasties. Now a specialty of the southwestern region of France, foie gras is the liver from a goose that has been force-fed, fattened on grains on an accelerated schedule for four or five months. This mimics their natural behavior and physiology before a long flight. These special geese gain an enlarged liver, which after harvesting is soaked overnight in milk, water, or port. The resulting flavor is extraordinary and the texture velvety smooth.

The fact that this culinary luxury is the darling of many five-star chefs’ menus has put it in the spotlight. But with fame comes scandal. A San Francisco chef’s home was recently attacked by animal-rights extremists who spray-painted his house, wrecked his car, and threatened the lives of his wife and child—all because of his association with Sonoma Foie Gras. Never mind that Sonoma Foie Gras is not a factory farm, but a small, local producer that cares for their birds in accordance with the highest standards. Why let the truth get in the way of your headlines?

To sample some of the local talent’s foie gras, the sophisticate heads to La Belle Vie in Stillwater. The ever-clever chefs have wrapped a diver scallop and French Rougie foie gras in serrano ham. With the accompanying Black Mission fig sauce, each bite has a mingling of nutty, salty, and sweet flavors. If that’s too fancy for your pants, Figlio has just debuted a killer burger with porcini mushrooms and caramelized onions, topped with foie gras. It’s a little bit of heaven in each mouthful.

Still can’t get your brain around the internal organ thing? What are you, chopped liver? You should be so lucky.

I had my chili epiphany in a bar in Dallas. Unlike some of my other saloon-supplied revelations, this one came not from the bourbon but from the crusty old dude on the next stool. I’d just asked for advice on the best local rib joint. After about an hour of discourse with details including serious analysis of the nuances of sauce and the names of the guys “rollin’ racks” behind the lines, my guy throws a head nod to the bartender and says, “But what you really want is a bowl of red.”

Two steaming, heaping bowls of chili came out of the kitchen, and Crusty tucked into his without a word. As I’m asking him if this is the best in the area, he taps his spoon on the edge of my chipped bowl and says, “Eat the magic beans.” And truly, amid the beef and tomatoes swam the most flavorful and colorful combination of beans, some of which I had never seen before. We licked our bowls clean and chatted about the chili queens of San Antonio—who used to roll out their carts to the plazas at dusk with big steaming pots of chili—and about how Crusty loved the one with the green lamp and how she gave him magic beans.

That night I could only dream about the beans I knew: green beans, soy beans, kidney, black, navy, lima. But with magic beans, it’s not so much what you know or don’t know, it’s what you don’t know you don’t know. You know?

As one of the oldest cultivated crops, beans have been fortifying society since there was society. Evidence suggests that the peoples of Mexico and Peru were growing beans as far back as 7000 B.C. Chickpeas and fava beans have been found in Egyptian tombs dating back at least 4000 years, and around the same time soybeans were growing in parts of Asia.

Legumes are plants characterized by edible seeds and pods or beans. This term replaced the word pulse, which you might see used in older cookery books by fancy people. All this naming is only slightly confusing when you consider there are roughly 14,000 species in the leguminusae family.

The Great Common Bean (phaseolus vulgaris) began life in Mexico thousands of years ago. Spanish explorers brought it to Europe, where it thrived and made its way back to the New World in completely new forms. This amazingly enchanted bean is classified by its diverse colors and is known differently by many cultures. White beans include navy, soisson, white kidney, cannellini in Italy, and Boston baked beans in Beantown. Red beans go by all kinds of familiar names: kidney beans, chili beans, habichuelas, cranberry beans, and pinto beans, named for the painted ponies they resemble. Black beans, brown beans, and flageolets are also common.

Chickpeas were named by the Romans for the “ram’s head” curl of the seed. They are also known as garbanzo beans and are said to increase sexual energy. Black-eyed peas most likely began in China and traveled with the tradesmen to Africa, then back to the Americas on the slave ships. The South’s traditional New Year’s “Hoppin’ John” dish is evidence of the migration. Pythagoras of ancient Greece forbade his followers to eat fava beans because they were said to contain the souls of the dead.

Soybeans, maybe the Albus Dumbledore of magic beans, originated in Manchuria about 3000 B.C. These hard little rocks need more soaking than other beans, if you intend to eat them outright, but that’s not where their true magic lies. It’s in the salad oil and the sprouts. And the bond in chocolate, and the miso in soup. It’s in the tofu, the Tofurkey, and the bogus hot dogs and cheese you fool yourself with. It’s in the soy sauce that brings your fried bean curd to life. Soy is the “meat of the earth” and the miracle bean, and the magic is clear.

But maybe beans aren’t so magical to you, because you fear them. All you’ve been thinking since you started reading this is: Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot. We’re not equipped to easily digest the complex sugars in beans. These sugars run into nasty little bacteria in the intestine, where they have a little party. The hungry buggers eat the sugars and give off gas. So, you see, it’s not really your fault; you just smell that way. Crazily enough, the more often you eat beans, the less you putt-putt. It’s only when you treat your bacteria to a splurge that you pay the price. Of course the answer is to eat more beans, because the more you eat the better you feel, so let’s have beans for every meal!

What better way to attain the enchantment of beans than through your own bowl of red? Here’s a good basic shot at Crusty’s favorite bar chili: Sauté some onions and garlic in a big pot. Add a pound of beef and brown. Drain off the fat and season with chili powder, cumin, crushed red peppers, paprika, salt, and pepper to taste. Add two large cans of whole, peeled tomatoes. Add rinsed black beans, pinto beans, cannellini beans, and black-eyed peas. Let the whole mess simmer on low heat for about two hours, and let the magic smell waft through your house before tearing in.

Wheat is under attack. Not from nasty-toothed beetles or fungus-ridden blight. This attack is more sinister, more devastating, because it comes from those once whole-heartedly on wheat’s side. The traitors are none other than the very same nutritionists who used to harp on you to eat your whole-wheat toast.

Wheat and all its lovely products have fallen out of fashion lately with the food conscious. Apparently its complex carbohydrates are unseemly and inappropriate in the bizarro world manipulated by Dr. Atkins. You can feel the panic from the National Wheat Growers as their website flaunts study after study debunking the high-protein/no-carb diet fads. They’re practically shouting, “Amber waves of grain, people! Not amber waves of beef!”

And get ready for a bigger shock, because your bread and cereal is not only trying to make you fat, but it may also be trying to kill you. The wheat- allergic types have organized a strong faction lately, creating a niche market for gluten-free products. To these folks, gluten (the protein in wheat) is the spawn of the devil. But really, what has wheat done to deserve this slander? What has wheat done to you lately? You’ve known it for so long as a solid staple, a warm, crusty slice of health. Maybe the question should be: What has wheat done for you? And the answer would be: not much but build a couple of cities by a big river.

Wheat is a cereal grain that’s existed since the Paleolithic times. Einkorn, a type of coarse-grained wheat and the ancestor of all modern varieties, originated in southeastern Turkey ten thousand years ago. By the dawn of recorded history, wheat was abundant in Asia and Europe and was the most esteemed of cereals, as evidenced by the name “wheat” itself, which refers to the prized whiteness of the flour. Not indigenous to the Americas, it somehow made its way across the pond, and today between sixty million and sixty-three million acres of wheat are harvested in the U.S. each year.

Wheat grows in thirty thousand varieties, but of the hundreds produced in the U.S., six classes can be distinguished. These classes are determined by the time of year planted and harvested, and by the kernel’s hardness, color, and shape. Each class has its own distinctions and characteristics. Hard red winter wheat has good baking qualities, and hard red spring has the highest percentage of proteins. Soft red winter is good for flatbreads, durum is used in semolina for pasta, hard white is good for yeast breads, and soft white is best in bakery products other than bread. And wheat doesn’t stop at the flour mill; it can also be puffed, flaked, or rolled to make your favorite breakfast cereals.

It was one Cadwallander C. Washburn who saw the amazing potential of wheat when, in 1866, he built his first mill by St. Anthony Falls. Named the Washburn “B” Mill, it was dubbed “Washburn’s Folly” by critics who thought there was no way that demand for Midwestern wheat would ever match the output potential of such a mill. But wheat stood strong. By 1880, the Washburn and Crosby Company had perfected and revolutionized the milling process, creating a flour worthy of a gold medal at the International Millers’ Exhibition. The aptly named Gold Medal Flour is still the number-one brand in America.

Meanwhile, across the river, a New Hampshire man who knew nothing about milling thought he might have a go at it. From the old run-down mill he purchased, Charles Pillsbury and family managed to turn a profit the very first year. In 1900, Pillsbury held its first recipe contest to promote its flour, offering prizes up to $680. Did you know the current winner of the Pillsbury Bake-Off wins $1 million?

Minneapolis became known as the “Flour Milling Capital of the World.” The Washburn “A” Mill was the largest and most innovative mill in the world, grinding enough flour to make twelve million loaves of bread a day. The city flourished as the mills used the railways to bring in grain from all over the country. Milled flour was sent to Duluth and points east for distribution and export around the globe. The city’s population jumped from 13,000 in 1870 to 165,000 by 1890.

The Washburn and Crosby Company became General Mills, which by virtue of good old Midwestern fiscal thinking not only survived but thrived during the Great Depression. They continued to innovate and push boundaries, like when someone dropped some bran gruel on a hot stove and accidentally created Wheaties. Or like the time when their mechanical division created bombsights and precision control instruments for the army in World War II. Yeah, that was fun. They also facilitated the creation of the “black box” used to record flight data, conducted hot air balloon experiments during the Cold War, and helped create the submarine used to explore the Titanic. All of this because of wheat.

If you want to watch the impact of wheat on a daily basis, check out the Minneapolis Grain Exchange. Since 1880, the MGEX has made wheat a money player on the world scene. The futures pit is madness with method, controlled chaos as the traders still use “open outcry” to sell futures and options. As the only contract market for hard red spring wheat, the MGEX trades around four thousand contracts daily.

But to really grasp the position of wheat and its role in the city and the world, you’ll have to check out the Mill City Museum, opening this month. It sits within the ruins of the Washburn “A” Mill and fully explains how Minneapolis came to be the breadbasket of our country. Maybe while sitting at the museum’s Wheat Street Café by D’Amico, you’ll see that fads may come and go, and times may get harder before they get better, but you can’t beat wheat.