I ate the Donut Burger, so you wouldn’t have to

Food trucks have made their way to Munich. They’re not quite brand new, but they’re relatively fresh on the scene.

So, there was an event today called Circus of Food, and there I was with Ella and Louis wandering from food truck to food truck trying to make the most of my choice. What delicacy shall I partake of that’s been prepared in the back of these shiny mobile kitchens?

I know these things are all the rage back in the US, and I’ve seen my share of them in Austin, as well as in many places I was while visiting family. And I’ve been eating tacos out of food trucks as far back as I can remember.

That they’re all the rage here now is no great surprise. I’ve been to a few events where the topic was presented and discussed. Apparently, the bureaucracy of getting permission to have a kitchen on wheels was initially prohibitive, but clearly the powers that be have come round. The Circus of Food was teeming with such a variety of food.

I’d had quite decent barbecue on other occasions & they’ve even managed to learn how to make a decent burrito here these days, but I’ve had those things before. I wanted to try something new. What delicacy would catch my eye?

A quick search for mentions of Circus of Food in Munich had me looking at photos of the usual suspects. I was scrolling through said images & then I came upon something both intriguing and a little repulsive.

A Donut Burger.

You heard me right: a burger, in this case slathered in bacon and cheese, but instead of a bun, they’d substituted a doughnut. Wait, what?

That’s right kids. Two of your favourite things that have no business being together – yet there they are. It seemed so decadent.

Didn’t that Anthony Bourdain guy tell us we’ve got to be adventurous when it comes to trying food? They say that a mix of sweet & savoury is one of the secrets to a great recipe. This was the ultimate sweet thing thrown together with some quite delicious savoury. What could possibly go wrong?

In a few short moments, I went from thinking this was some sort of abomination of culinary experimentation to thinking it was a stroke of pure inspiration. ‘Why not?,‘ I heard myself muttering. It’s simply got to work!

Although they’d run out of doughnuts at the advertised place, they convinced me to go procure one elsewhere. ‘Hol ein Donut ab, und wir machen ein Donut Burger für dich (Go get a doughnut & we’ll make you a Donut Burger,‘ she offered. Suddenly, I desperately needed a doughnut.

To say I was channeling my inner Homer Simpson would not be an overstatement. A doughnut would be mine. Luckily, there was a food truck on the other side of the Schlachthof where they had all manner of doughnuts. A jelly-filled one was out of the question, though. A plain cake doughnut seemed too bland, so I went with an unassuming glazed specimen of a doughnut.

Upon presenting my find to the woman back at the original food truck, she glowed with delight. She’d seen my kind before: the unitiated. I had huge eyes like a child coming downstairs on Christmas morning. What could go wrong? This was going to be good.

Alas, it was exactly that curious mix of sweet and savoury that I’d expected. It was everything the original photo had promised. Though the doughnut itself was an excellent variety and the burger above-average, as well, these are two foods that probably should stay on opposite sides of the plate. Probably even kept in separate meals.

The tastes as I slowly chewed & swallowed each bite were curious. As well as bizarre. Dare I even say: wrong.

Wish I could say it was a revelation of a delicacy. I should’ve known better. There were people online asking me if I’d survived the experiment. They clearly hadn’t been paying attention when we were caking across a Europe. Jelly-filled foodstuffs in Palermo & all manner of cakes here in Munich have prepared me well for such endeavours, but in this case I was quite obviously outmatched.

As I held my stomach & felt myself digesting violently, I informed both my food truck dining companions and anyone paying attention online that:

‘I ate the Donut Burger, so you wouldn’t have to.’

 

oranges aren’t the only meat

Image
oranges aren’t the only meat 

There are already more photos of Palermo than one can shake the proverbial stick at, but I just can’t be bothered to sift through them yet and decide which are interesting to anyone other than me.

So, I’ll give you one ridiculous shot and a bit of a story. The handful of you who still come here are doing so for the narrative anyway, right? The photos are gravy, I’m assuming.

What’s with the title of this blogpost, you ask? Well, it comes thanks to Elaine (@elaine4queen), with whom I’m conquering Palermo. There was talk of cake, but we’ve not actually found any of that yet. In the process of our hunt for cake, however, we did find these Orange Balls.

We had both heard of these, but the billing didn’t quite do them justice. Nevertheless, until technology catches up and allows me to upload the taste of something on a blog, a description will have to suffice.

It’s a ball of some sort of corn breading with a variety of different fillings depending on the whims of whoever’s cooking. In this case, we were offered either Ham and Cheese or Meat. When I inquired about what sort of meat specifically was involved in the latter, the woman behind the counter looked at me incredulously and said with an odd finality, ‘Meat.’

Some might have balked, but now I was genuinely curious. The decision was snatched away from us, when the woman announced that they were, alas, out of the Ham and Cheese. We were having the Meat, and have it we did.

They were delicious. There’s a reason why numerous people, upon hearing we were going to Palermo, insisted we try the Orange Balls. There’s nothing remotely citrus about them, incidentally. Orange is a colour here, rather than a taste. Yet they were filling and somehow decadent, and even before we were halfway done, it was clear that there would be no room left for cake.

You could possibly be one of those folk who believes there’s always room for cake. To such a person, I’ll only say, ‘Have an Orange Ball in Palermo and get back to me on that one.

ginger and cheese

Texas-shaped biscuits

There’s a blogpost about products in the shape of Texas that’s coming up. I assume I’ll keep seeing things I want to include as long as I’m here, so I’ll hold off on publishing it until later in my visit. It’s going to be both intriguing and educational. You like that, right?

However, today we have something related but not quite exactly the same. First of all, I found ginger snaps in the shape of Texas, and I had to have them. For putting in my mouth and eating reasons. To be precise, they’re called ‘Texas Snaps‘. Well named, eh?

So, I purchased them and was on my way. As is my wont. All was right with the world.

Then my mother suggested something that would change existence as we know it. Exaggeration? I think not.

ginger snaps and blue cheese

She said, ‘Try those ginger snaps with blue cheese‘. Wait, what? Those two things don’t go together. They’re actually diametrically opposed. Like some land of ginger thins whose inhabitants could never imagine any sort of cultural exchange with another land of people, who happened to be engaged in the enjoyment of curiously mouldy cheese.

Those two lands would never get along. There are universal laws, after all. We can’t be interfering with the ways of the heavens. Well, not without consequences.

But my mother is a smart lady. This isn’t her proverbial first rodeo. Would she steer me wrong? Not knowingly, she wouldn’t. So I sat down and had a cautious look at a plate of very delicious blue cheese. Then I opened the Texas Snaps. With aplomb. One shan’t forget the aplomb.

I spread a bit of cheese on the wafer, then popped it in my mouth. And the result?

What do you think? It was really quite good. Did you doubt my mother? Did you really?

One does such a thing at his peril. Going up against the mother of ol’ lahikmajoe is akin to battling Grendel’s mother. Not something I’d recommend.

Grendel’s mom

(photo credit: Emily L. Hauser – In My Head)

where to store your meat

rotisserie meat

So I’ve tried writing about serious topics here, and gotten very little response. I’ve included a bit of whimsy, and that attracted some dialogue and then some.

To be fair, what’s one to say in response to not very anonymous? That Shakespeare didn’t really write the plays? Please. If you really believe that, you and I are already on opposing teams. Or more recently, I wrote about press freedom in something rotten in Hungary. What stirring commentary might that trigger? That you really like censorship? Actually, that might be an challenging point to attempt to make.

Lisa Galaviz has been doing some important yet unappreciated work when it comes to Quantum Weirdness. She knows how to forget her blog voice for a post or two and alienate her readers. I could learn a lot from her.

When it comes to my teablog, I have a voice that I’ve developed. I have a feeling for what I do well there. Here? Not so much. I know what I like to write. Some things have come pouring out of me onto the screen, while others were a bit more laboured. That part I have some say in. On the other hand, what resonates with others is completely beyond me.

But the things I’ve gotten the most mileage out of had to do with defecation. And dogs. Oh, and vomiting. Bringing those together might possibly be blogging gold for me. Well, I already wrote about the second and third in chocolate spewing forth. If I wanted to play it safe, I’d keep writing variations of that.

I was reading Amy Durant‘s blog earlier (you might know her as @lucysfootball) and she was going on and on about a stomach bug in I think it’s fairly likely I’m either dying or pregnant with a magic dream tractor baby. It reminded me of something that happened recently in France, and it includes at least one of my target topics. Maybe two if you’re generous.

Don’t particularly like eating chicken, but I was persuaded to have some of the rotisserie variety that’s pictured above. It was New Year’s Day, and few places were open. I made an exception. Just this once. And the result?

Was up half the night wishing that chicken had been cooked at just a bit higher temperature. Or that I hadn’t eaten it. Not too much to ask was it? Well, apparently it was. Who cares, right? Everyone gets ill at some point. And what’s the big deal about losing a bit of sleep?

I completely agree with all of that. Nonetheless, while walking through the streets the next day, here’s what I saw:

windscreen meat

In case it’s unclear what that is, that’s a hunk of meat on the front window of some Frenchman’s vehicle. At this point, I began to wonder about food storage in this beautiful country.