It's Not Really a Pie

I suppose it's a pie because it's round, has "fillings" and a crust, but I don't really think of a pizza as a pie. The earth is round, has a crust, and is covered in toppings, but it's not a pizza.

But pizza is a wonderful thing regardless of its pie status. It's one of those foods which, as a basic template, is simple in execution but allows for a myriad of design changes. There's a huge range of crust flavors and textures, sauces of differing complexity levels, and many different cheese options, not to mention a world of possible toppings. That's why no one pizza made by a particular chain or restaurant or person ever tastes quite the same as any other pizza recipe.

The angel is in the details, I guess. And I love almost every riff on the concept. Oddly enough, the best pizza I ever ate I found in a small cafe in France. I think it may have been recommended to me by someone I met in my hotel outside of Paris, but I can't quite remember. I may also have stumbled on it by accident. In either case, the pizza was impeccable. Perfect sauce, perfect crust, fresh toppings, including red onion and artichoke, and the coup de grâc; an egg broken onto the pizza as it came out of the oven. Sounds strange, I know. But it was so good. The white of the egg cooked from the heat of the pizza. The yolk cooked some, but stayed mostly liquid, like a good sunny side up egg should. It was an unexpected addition that really elevated the pizza beyond anything I'd ever had.

And it's funny. I've considered breaking an egg over a pizza since then, and I can't seem to bring myself to do it. I feel like that was a once in a lifetime experience. One that could only work in that cafe in France at that point in my life. Any attempt to recreate that moment would feel, at best a pretender to the throne, and at worst a very bad pizza. I mean, imagine breaking an egg over a pizza from Papa Johns. Yeech! Doesn't sound appealing in the least bit.

And it would ruin my memory of that perfect pizza. I'd rather have the memory.

Cinco De Mayo

Cinco De Mayo is such a funny holiday. It celebrates an event of limited regional significance in Mexico that is of no significance to most of the world and now holds claim as a legitimate holiday based solely on the fact that in Spanish "the fifth of May" rhymes. I think it's safe to say that most people in the United States (myself included until I went to Wikipedia) have no clue what Cinco De Mayo commemorates.

But it doesn't matter. Cinco De Mayo is great for what it has become. An excuse to get together with friends and enjoy yourself. A reason to throw a party for party's sake, one that you likely wouldn't have thrown otherwise. Cinco De Mayo is sort of like National Tuna Fish and Pasta Day. It's a holiday of questionable importance that, if nothing else, exists as an excuse to be happy.

The outlook for our Cinco De Mayo's, for the foreseeable future, is favorable. Our neighbor three houses down started a Cinco De Mayo party last year, our first year in this house, threw it again this year, and now plans on making it an annual event. She, and her friends and coworkers are all great people, so it's a great time. And we can get a little toasty (or in Kate's case this year, a LOT toasty) and then walk home. What a great holiday!

Interested in the sordid history? Here's a quick synopsis. In 1861, Mexico stopped making interest payments to its major international creditors. In response France and a few other countries attacked Mexico to force payment. During the second major engagment between Mexican and French forces, on May 5, 1862 in the city of Puebla at the aptly named Battle of Puebla, the much more larger French army was defeated, an army that hadn't been defeated in 50 years.

Horray for Mexico! A deadbeat debtor filchs on its debt, wins out over a legitimate creditor, and much blood is shed. It's your classic underdog story. But it was all for naught. A year later the French attacked Mexico City, occupied it, and placed a puppet emperor on the throne. So horray for France! An imperialist power succeeds in subjogating a nation over cash, continuing its hard-nosed domination of world politics.

Either way you look at it, Cinco De Mayo celebrates a silly little blip in world history. Better to erase the historical significance, or at least your memory of it with a dozen or so Coronas and enjoy yourself.

Good Beer. Really Good Beer.

I like beer.  Beer with personality.  Beer that's not afraid to claim its heritage.  Give me something dark, rich and meaty over anything associated with football and being a real American any day.  I don't want bubbly water with real beer flavor added.  If I'm going to drink a beer I want those empty calories to be meaningful.  I'm not drinking it because I'm thirsty.  I want real flavor.  I want an experience.  I want the type of beer you drink, not because you're thirsty, but because you're hungry.

The short list of favorite varieties would consist of Bocks, Doppelbocks, Stouts, Brown Ales, Porters, Dunkels, Pumpkin Ales, Winter Ales, Hefeweizens and other assorted wheat brews.  That's just what I can think of.  I'm sure there's more that I'm missing.  Give me a Newcastle, a Lancaster Milk Stout, or a Shiner Bock anytime and I'm happy.  I once brewed (the only beer I ever brewed) a Banana Brown Ale that was pretty delicious.  

I don't do this anymore because it became more of a torture than a pastime, but I used to love going through all the high-priced specialty beers you find shelves and shelves of at decent liquor stores.  I can't bring myself to pay $12 for a single beer except on very special occasions.  Which I have done, though rarely, and had some wonderful beers.  I had a beer in France made by the Amsterdam Brewery Company called the Maximator.  A bock with an alcohol content of 11.6%.  Wow!  Talk about a heady drink.

It warms my cockles to know there is so much beer out there I haven't tried yet.  It's like a liquid candy store for grownups, where all the sugar has fermented into cold (and warm) alcoholic bliss.