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Breakfast

Eating the World Every Morning

Who Needs Coffee?

Jun.24.15

Who Needs Coffee?

by Sam Lee

Mate in Patagonia

The sun rises late in Patagonian autumn. Come April and May, the golden streaks of dawn lighten the sky close to 9 am. I awake at 7 am on the morning of the cattle drive, in Jaime’s puesto, a cluster of shacks where he lives and works. We are in Laguna Negra, a remote grazing post that took us an entire day to reach on horseback. We rode past arid, yellow grasslands, black valleys, up and down the sliding scree of mountains, to reach this oasis of lush greenery, gray under low-hanging clouds. Today, we aim to push his cattle from their summer pasture to a warmer, winter one.

I am discombobulated by the unceasing dark and the waning haze of wine that perked up our asado the night before. As I stumble into the next wooden shack, Jaime sits around a crackling fire in full gaucho gear: a button-down shirt under a vest, a silk scarf that in any other circumstance would scream RAKISH, a red belt-sash holding up loose bombachas, sturdy riding boots, and a boina (a hat resembling a French beret).

He sips from a metal straw, embedded in a brown gourd filled with tea leaves. Quieres mate?

. I accept the godsend of concentrated energy. Jaime lifts the kettle of water from atop its bed of ashes and refills the mate, which in a previous life was the fruit of the yerba mate tree. As I take my sip, the tea rises up the silver straw, called a bombilla, and hits me with the punch of a mule kick, tasting as it always does of grass and earth, with a deep, bitter tang.

As the proclaimed national drink of Argentina, mate is drunk by all and sundry, young and old. But with its gauchos—Argentinian cowboys—who work long, thankless, and sometimes cruelly solitary days out in deep country, the drink attains life-giving status. Never have I seen a gaucho taint his lips with mere water. Mate is chock full of good things: antioxidants, vitamins C, B1, and B2. It lowers cholesterol. It wakes you up. It suppresses the appetite. Even the early colonialists marveled at how, even with a one-dimensional diet of meat and mate, the gaucho never seemed to contract scurvy. It is, essentially, all he needs to start his day, even if that day involves chasing a hundred cows up and down a mountain on a braying mule in a wind that fills your orifices with dust and threatens to blow the saddle off your ride’s back.

The modern gaucho makes concessions, sometimes supplementing his morning meal with a torta frita (fried bread) and a slather of dulce de leche. But viewing mate as mere alimentation would be to miss its point. It is also a comforting, long-held ritual, woven into the very fabric of the gauchos’ work and social lives.

Alone for the summer, the ritual of making mate ad infinitum fills the hours of profound solitude. Observe a group of gauchos together, however, and the constant ribbing, joking, laughing, and general horseplay makes apparent their love for social interaction. And mate. Invariably, a cebador, or server, takes charge of proceedings. He fills the mate each time, ensuring the temperature of the water and the strength of the drink is perfect. The gourd is passed clockwise around the group. Each receiver drinks the mate dry during his turn, then passes it back to the cebador. When a receiver has had enough, he adds a gracias while handing the mate back. This can go on for hours.

Other rules cling to the ritual. Touching the bombilla is a no-no. Spitting out the first sip is a yes; some maintain it’s for luck, others for the more practical reason of ‘washing out’ the first bitter brew. You never wash your mate, the gourd in which the drink is served. Rinsing out the bombilla is fine, but not necessary. Some like it with sugar, but others disdain that as a kid’s drink. And what are a ritual’s rules but the links that bind its partakers in a sense of camaraderie? The sense that ‘I know what I’m doing in the mate-drinking world, and now I belong.’

Come 9 am, the sun is barely out. The mist-shrouded hills promise a difficult day, a fact our patiently grazing horses are blissfully unaware of. It is time to leave. As I step back into Jaime’s shack after saddling my ride, he hands me the mate one more time. For the road.

Again, the invariable mule-kick of energy, this time followed by the unmistakeable punch of … whiskey, Jaime says with a grin. I spot the half-empty bottle of The Breeder’s Choice by his feet.

Sometimes, a gaucho needs just a little more to start his day right.

Breakfast in Kashmir is So Good, They Have it Twice

Sep.19.17

Breakfast in Kashmir is So Good, They Have it Twice

by Sophia Ann French

Czot in Kashmir

It was my first time on a houseboat and my first trip to Kashmir. Standing on the deck of the boat, I was excited to start working on my first film when Ajaz, the owner of the houseboat, brought me a cup of tea. It was the first time I tasted Kashmiri nun chai. We Indians love our chai with milk, sugar, and, at times, I add a dash of cardamom seeds to make a Mumbai-style masala chai, but nun chai wasn’t like any other tea I’ve had. It was pink, and salty. (It’s usually served with milk, but I had it without.) I took a reluctant sip and was surprised to enjoy the unusual flavor. Over the three months we spent in Kashmir, nun chai became a staple at every breakfast.

The union of bread with tea is an age-old tradition, and a Kashmiri breakfast pairs the savory tea with fresh-baked loaves from a kandar waz—these bakeries are found in every neighborhood across the valley and the bread is baked in a wood-fired, clay tandoor. On the first morning, Ajaz served us czot and lavasa. Czot is made by mixing refined white flour with water and kneading pieces of dough into thin rectangles. The kandar makes impressions on each piece with his fingertips before putting it into the oven, so the bread has ridges across the surface. I’d smear dollops of butter across its auburn crust and dunk it in nun chai. Lavasa is an unleavened flat bread with a blistery surface. I didn’t enjoy its stretchy texture when dipped in tea, so a Kashmiri colleague made me a delicious roll by stuffing the lavasa with barbecued meat and chickpeas.

The Kashmiris love their bread and chai so much they have it twice every morning. The film’s crew would leave for reconnaissance soon after breakfast, but I stayed back on the houseboat to interview the locals about militancy in Kashmir. The valley has been disputed territory between India and Pakistan for decades. Kashmiris who cross the border into Pakistan and return to India to fight are called militants. Ajaz, like many young Kashmiris, didn’t go the militant way, but is caught between the crossfire between the militants and the Indian army.

In the middle of his interview, Ajaz excused himself for a few minutes and returned with a tray of the pink tea and bakarkhani, a round bread that looks like puffed pastry. It’s brown and crispy on the outside with soft fluffy layers on the inside. I’d never seen this at breakfast, and Ajaz explained that the Kashmiris have specific breads for specific times. Bakarkhani and nun chai became part of our 10 a.m. ritual, when Ajaz and I ruminated over the differences between Kashmir’s past—when it was a center for Sufism and Shaivism—and its fraught present.

If Nothing Else, This Experimental Utopia Has a Pretty Good Café

Sep.18.17

If Nothing Else, This Experimental Utopia Has a Pretty Good Café

by Ranjini Rao

Bagels in Auroville

With the blaze of the August sun in our eyes and yet a lightness to our step in Pondicherry, India’s beloved, dreamy beach town, and an erstwhile French colony, we set out for Auroville to have breakfast at the Auroville Bakery Café.

Our host—a dear friend who had grown up talking, breathing, and eating all things French in Pondy—had raved enough about it for us to want to sample the food there.

Auroville is an ambitious utopian living experiment, courtesy of the vision of philosopher-guru Sri Aurobindo and his colleague Mirra Alfassa, aka The Mother. Founded in 1968, it was designed as a village-for-all, governed by multicultural harmony, where people from all over the world are welcome.

The foundation for the bakery was laid by an Austrian banker, Otto, who moved to Auroville in the 80s and collaborated with bakers in the area for a while. The café in the back is a recent addition to the bakery, we were informed. The bakery was created by several eager hands, trying and testing recipes ranging from brioche to knackebrots to provide an excellent patisserie for Aurovilleans in the 90s.

The café’s newest crew—a German, a Ukrainian, a handful of Indians, and a couple of French nationals—came aboard in the 2000s, and decided to offer beverages, too. They started the café out small, with a few vibrant chairs and tables assembled under the trees in the backyard garden, but they were determined to serve big, satisfying breakfasts.

The menu was handwritten on an overused blackboard, and didn’t seem too exciting at first. But on closer inspection, we saw the items of which we’re sadly deprived in Bangalore: bagels with cheese, salads loaded with proteins, fresh fruit platters, wholewheat sandwiches with fresh cheese, quiches, tarts, croissants.

We ordered a bagel with cheese, a fresh fruit platter, and a grilled vegetable and cheese sandwich to share, plus juice, tea, and coffees.

The bread in the sandwich was a far cry from the supermarket variety to which we’re accustomed, which is softened and aerated with additives. This bread was crusty, substantial, with a nutty, earthy taste. The cheese was fresh, thick-cut, and refreshingly light on sourness and saltiness, unlike the aged cheeses sold outside, preserved with chemicals. It was a delicious morning.

A Delicious Breakfast Ruined by Reality

Sep.15.17

A Delicious Breakfast Ruined by Reality

by Corinne Redfern

Barbati in Bangladesh

It’s our third day of reporting in Jessore, and we’re starving. A tightly-bound team of four, we’re supposed to be covering child marriage—a weighty topic that’s reduced our sleep and raised our stress levels—and our stomachs are the ones suffering for it.

Somehow I’ve taken to subsisting on peanut butter scooped out of the jar with the end of a pen. The roadside café near our hotel doesn’t appeal—five men hover on the steps outside and stare. But our fixer is insistent: it’s time to find food. Plus it’s shaded, and there appears to be tea.

Female foreigners don’t come here often, we learn. The proprietor, Mahmoud, nervously knots and unknots the front of his navy-blue lunghi as we help ourselves to the pots of food: shoveling saucers full of rice onto wet stainless steel plates and drowning everything in heavily-spiced daal.

The food is good; hot and heavy. But it feels like we’re getting in the way. We push our chairs back to leave, and relief flushes Mahmoud’s face.

Less than 24 hours later and we’re back. It’s barely morning, but the day’s interviews are already going awry and we need to regroup. Today, Mahmoud is waiting. As we elbow our way to reach a space at the back, the 66-year-old stands beaming before producing a red plastic lunchbox from behind his back. A handmade paper bag follows; unwrapped to reveal eight flour-soft pathiri folded in four. Water is procured and ceremoniously poured.

He told his wife about us last night, Mahmoud explains, lunghi-knot intact as he checks the table arrangement one last time, and finally lifts the red plastic lid to reveal a hot, spiced pile of green beans and garlic. So she made us a breakfast of barbati, just in case we were still in town.

They were worried, he adds, in case yesterday’s food wasn’t good enough. That day, he hadn’t known we were coming. He hadn’t had time to prepare.
We try to send compliments back to the chef, but Mahmoud insists he could have cooked the barbati himself. It’s just a matter of heating salt, garlic, turmeric and onions, dicing potato and chopping up yard-long beans; stirring the ingredients with water until they soften and the spices find their way under the skins.

After all, he should know. He’d taught his wife the recipe himself two decades earlier, although she’s improved on it since, and won’t tell him what’s changed. How old was she when you married her, we ask, mouths full and distracted. It’s only as our breakfast digests that it dawns on us he answered “ten.”

Photo by: Rds26/Wikipedia Commons

Battle Lines Drawn in Philly’s Cookie Wars

Sep.14.17

Battle Lines Drawn in Philly’s Cookie Wars

by Gina Zammit

Spiced Wafers in Philadelphia

Like jack-o’-lanterns on Halloween, another black-and-orange tradition arrives each fall in Philadelphia. Spiced wafers from two dueling companies, Ivins and Sweetzels, appear on store shelves in late August.

These curious cookies have rabid local fans, outselling even Oreos throughout their autumn reign. But, come the first signs of peppermint sticks and jolly Saint Nick, which, sadly, increasingly encroaches on the fall season, just as mysteriously as they arrived, they disappear.

Spiced wafers are best compared to ginger snaps, although there are distinct differences. Containing a mix of autumnal spices including ginger, cinnamon, allspice, molasses, and cloves, these tough cookies have a more complex flavor than traditional ginger snaps. The wafers are baked three times longer than most cookie varieties, achieving a hard, but not rock-solid, texture, “born to be dunked.” They are best served alongside another fall favorite, apple cider (preferably from the local Bauman’s Cider Company), with a cold glass of milk, or spicy tea.

Although the cookies are confined to the greater Philly area, including parts of southern New Jersey, there is a fierce rivalry between the brands’ devotees. Sweetzels supporters favor the less spicy, sweeter version, while Ivins fans prefer the longer-lasting kick of allspice, and a cookie lighter on the molasses. But despite their loyal followings, the cookies’ origins are somewhat mysterious.

Sweetzels’ website proudly proclaims that “The Old Black & Orange Magic is Back!” and a “Philadelphia original since 1910!” Sweetzels were originally produced by the Tritzel Baking Company, which was based in the Philly suburb of Landsdale. Along with the cookies (Sweetzels), the company also manufactured potato chips (Chipzels) and Pretzels. Eventually, the company shuttered in 1965, was bought by the Borzillo family, and is now located in Nooristown in Montgomery County.

However, tracking down information on Ivins proved to be more challenging, so I went directly to the source. Danielle D’Elia, Communications & Government Relations Manager for the supermarket chain, Acme Markets, and Nina Borzillo, daughter of Sweetzels owner Robert D. Borzillo, both helped enlighten me.

Public information about Ivins is a little harder to discover, because it’s a proprietary brand of Acme Markets. But it didn’t start out that way.

According to Acme’s company records, Ivins Baking Company was originally located on Broad Street in Philadelphia. They sold their “penny cookies” at Acme Markets for a number of years, until the company closed its doors sometime around the 1960s. Acme Markets quickly swooped in on that opportunity and purchased both the company name and the recipe. Although the spiced wafers are no longer produced in Pennsylvania, they’re sold today at all 178 Acme locations and remain unchanged from the original recipe. (Sweetzels, on the other hand, are sold at most other stores, but not at Acme Markets.)

The wafers are rumored to have come from a German ginger-snap recipe, modified to its current version during the colonial era. Now, they are the essence of autumn in Philadelphia and a staple at tailgating events. Or, as Nina Borzillo prefers, with morning coffee.

Where Eating Only Two Rounds of Breakfast is the Height of Rudeness

Sep.12.17

Where Eating Only Two Rounds of Breakfast is the Height of Rudeness

by Joanna Lobo

Ghee roast dosa in Chembur

I am at a table with three strangers. We don’t talk; our mouths are busy shoveling down idlis, wadas, and upma. The only sounds we make come from the cracking of a crisp dosa, and the slurp of hot filter coffee.

A waiter hovers, ready to refill our bowls with ladles of fragrant sambhar. The thin and tangy vegetable stew coats the idlis (steamed lentil rice cakes) on my plate, giving them an orange tint. In another bowl, the soup-like rasam, made with tamarind juice, tomato, chilies, and spices, soaks through the medu wada (crisp fritters made with urad dal), softening them up. I wipe both dishes clean, resisting the urge to lick my fingers.

In Mumbai, there’s cheap and then there’s “lunch home” cheap. Mani’s Lunch Home, or Mani’s, falls in the latter category. Nothing on their menu costs over 150 rupees. The 80-year-old institution serves simple, homely, vegetarian South Indian food. Last year, it shut down its Matunga outlet and moved to the eastern suburbs of Chembur.

I visit the new digs for a late breakfast. It takes time getting used to the white walls, metal chairs, and air-conditioned interiors. The old Mani’s felt like a friend’s dining room, warm and inviting. Here, under the glare of white lights, the four of us sharing a table are extremely conscious of each other. We sit properly, without fidgeting. But once our orders arrive, all propriety is forgotten, and we dig in.

My ghee roast dosa is paper thin and crumbles as I break into it, revealing a mound of masala (boiled potatoes with onion and tempered with mustard and curry leaves). In between bites, I pour the filter coffee from the stainless steel tumbler into the cup, cool it, and take small sips. It is milky and sweet enough to jolt me awake.

Eating at a lunch home is a lesson in portion control. I barely wipe the last drop of sambhar from the plate, when a hand materializes out of nowhere and fills it up. After two rounds, I feebly wave the waiter away. He is understandably surprised. Whoever says no to extra, and free, servings?

By now, I’m regretting all the food I’ve ordered. I can’t finish it all. My fellow diners have finished up, paid and left. They know their limits. They also know that you don’t waste time at a lunch home; you eat as quickly as you can and leave, making way for other hungry diners.

As I pay the bill, the owner, K.S. Narayanaswamy, walks over for feedback. I am full of praise, but he isn’t convinced. He saw me wave away extra helpings. “You didn’t finish your paper dosa,” he says, accusingly. I sheepishly apologize, promising to return and do justice to everything I order.

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