"british isles" news and stories

A couple of months ago, I wrote a post in which I tried to touch bottom in the pantheon of disturbing cuisine. While I stopped short of nightmarishly horrifying food, like rotten cheese and duck embryos, I explored what I imagined were the worst fried foods imaginable.

In retrospect, I was incredibly naive.

At the end of the post, I asked my readers to submit their own choices for worst possible food, promising to do a little more research and write longer pieces about them. I got a fair bit of responses, which led to a fun post about beer floats. However, Guinness and vanilla ice cream only represented the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, and it seemed inevitable that I would return to further explore the wonders that make up the culinary wasteland.

Many of my readers shared tales about their favorite fried food joints. Museum Mouse, for example, turned me on to the joys of Scottish fried cuisine. Having had my fair share of haggis and cock-a-leekie soup, I thought that I had experienced everything that Scotland had to offer. I was wrong. For example, one popular treat is the Stonner, which is basically a sausage wrapped in gyro meat, battered, and deep fried. In Scotland, "stonner" is a euphemism for an erection, which seems ironic, given that coronary occlusions can lead to impotence. Still, I guess we all find our excitement in different places...

My daughter is addicted to Dirty Jobs, a Discovery Channel show in which the host tries out the filthiest, nastiest jobs in the country. Watching him work his way through a septic system or clean gum off a sidewalk, it's hard to imagine worse tasks than the ones that he regularly undertakes. However, in a recent move, Japan and Kit Kat seem to have figured out an innovative new way to lower the bar on horrifyingly bad employment.

Kit Kat's new Human Vending Machines combine the best elements of convenience foods, automatic vending, and slavery in one brutally delicious, schadenfreude-laden package. Basically a snack machine with a human being trapped inside, the machines put a personal face on candy vending transactions. Users put in their money, make their choice, and ask the man inside to send out the chocolate. The vendor, in turn, smiles at the customer, grabs the candy, and drops it into a slot.

There is no word yet on whether, underneath their smiles, the anonymous vendors are dying inside, asking themselves what series of bad choices led them to become nameless cogs in a snack-distribution empire. Similarly, one has to wonder if any of the vendors has found himself on a weekend-long alcoholic bender after selling a candy bar to his former prom date, a slickly-attired professional who pretended that she didn't recognize him.

Perhaps I'm projecting.

You've got just over three weeks left to submit a paper for the next Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery. The symposium was co-founded by Alan Davidson, whose name you may recognize from the spine of your copy of Oxford Companion to Food, which, if you are indeed a budding food historian, should certainly occupy a few inches on your bookshelf. Each year, food experts gather in, well, Oxford, England, to explore from every angle some theme in food history. The theme for 2009 is "Food and Language."

Anyone with a deep interest in food history may submit a paper (no later than March 15). If your paper is chosen, you get to attend this veritable who's who of the food world, with the added bonus of partaking in the culinary offerings of Raymond Blanc of Michelin-starred Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons in England. Oh, and you have to present your ideas and respond to questions.

Check out the website as nothing I could say in this abbreviated space would do justice to the incredible range of scholarship presented at past symposia. And no, I've never been. Nor have I yet divined a topic for this year, even though I couldn't hope for a richer and more personally arresting topic than "Food and Language." But there's still time for me, and for you!

I'm quite happy to have some Scottish ancestry. It's led me to the dry and delicious world of scones, the simplicity of shortbread, the warm and satisfying bite of Scotch, and the utter tastiness of haggis. Now, it's led me to warm and tasty baps.

Scottish baps are simply bread rolls made with yeast. They must be kneaded and allowed to rise a few times before being flattened, left to raise again, and then pinched to keep them from rounding out while baking. They only need to be baked for 20-30 minutes, and they're the perfect sort of bread for beginner bakers. The recipe is incredibly easy, it familiarizes you with kneading and rising, and it is hard to mess up. The flavor of a bap is simple, yet rewarding. It tastes much like a freshly made biscuit while having the texture of a well-worked piece of bread. The outside is wonderfully crisp while the inside is soft, airy, and just waiting for a slab of butter.

There's really no limit to the foods that can be slid inside a bap, and Wise Geek notes that regional favorites include bacon batties (bacon, butter, and a brown sauce), baps served alongside Lincolnshire sausages, and fritter rolls that pile potato fritters inside.

Bap recipe after the jump.

When I signed up for the Burns' Night dinner at St. Andrews Restaurant, I was pretty excited. Not only would I be able to enjoy haggis and other Scottish specialties, but I would also have a great post for Slashfood. Unfortunately, Monika Bartyzel got here ahead of me and did a pretty damned good job of talking up the wonders of the "Great chieftain o' the pudding race." Still, having spent an evening eating offal, sipping scotch, and listening to highland poetry, I'm not quite ready to give up...

My introduction to haggis came on a family trip to Scotland. My mother, who was Jewish and had never quite understood my father's extreme dislike of spices, bought A Feast of Scotland by Janet Warren. As we drove around the countryside, she tore through the tome, alternately giggling, gagging, and exclaiming "You're FREAKING joking!" At the end of all of this, she gazed upon my father and told him that she finally understood his problem. The cookbook featured exactly two spices: salt and pepper, and occasionally exhorted its readers to "add suet to taste." While there is a lot to be said for environment, it was clear that heredity had had at least some effect on my dad's palate.