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If, however, an animal has been under stress prior to being slaughtered, its resulting muscular tension will have depleted the glycogen supply. The muscles will therefore accumulate less lactic acid after death; and the meat will have a lower acid content than it would if its glycogen supplies had been normal. Such meat is called “dark-cutting,” a condition first described in the 18th century. Although it has the same nutritional value as normal meat, dark-cutting meat is unattractive, gummy in texture, and tends to spoil faster, since acid conditions inhibit the growth of many bacteria and molds.

– On Food and Cooking by Harold McGee

You have to love any place with a system. Blimpy Burger on S. Division at Packard has a system. Fried items first, then grilled, then fixin’s. You order from the cook, who makes your burger to order right in front of you, on a grill that’s three feet away and only separated from drooling customers by a low and narrow counter. When I was there, the customer-cook banter included the story of a baby who, if the story is to be believed, was Blimpy Burger addicted pre-nataly, and now cries hysterically should the family comes within some extra-sensory perceptual distance of Blimpy without going in for a bite.

The key burger innovation here is the use of very small patties pressed extremely thin against the griddle, served in quantities of two or more per bun. I found this puzzling at first, wouldn’t it overcook the (daily ground) chuck? On biting into my burger I quickly discovered the reason. The burger was moist with a meatloaf flavor that would ordinarily indicate the presence of fillers (seems unlikely considering how close I was to raw patties) but in this case is more likely the contribution of the griddle itself, which probably hasn’t been cleaned since 1953 and has acquired the patina of place that only long running joints can claim. I mean, this griddle was cured.

One final note: The cash register was stocked with 2 dollar bills.

I finally got a chance to try Zingerman’s, the nationally renowned deli here in Ann Arbor. Not having any clue of what to expect beyond the requisite need to go if you find yourself in Ann Arbor for any period of time longer than the time needed to navigate the lines (or so I’ve been told).

Upon entering, the gist of the place was immediately apparent. High quality gourmet deli-themed food immediately surrounds you in a kind of epicure wallpaper motif. You order any and all kinds of quality meats, breads, and spreads from any of a number of earnest collegiate types working over or in front of the seemingly overflowing counter displays (an illusion, but an effective one).

[Aside: Some Zingerman employees live in kind of a commune situation one house over from where I am spending my summer. They do a lot of very interesting cooking over there, including brewing beer and making what appear to be elaborate and flavorful soups in big pots on burners out on the front porch. These people do know their food.]

The sandwich menu, the star attraction, is complex and scholarly though paired with a kind of cartoonish typography and semiotics that I suppose is intended to make the experience less formal. The prices, you quickly notice, are anything if not formal. The Zingerman shtick, if there is a prevailing shtick, is that by bringing together the best of the premium food in one place, and marrying it to the deep themes and cultural mystique of Jewish delicatessen, they are able to justify a kind of premium on premium.

[Aside: As an example consider the prosciutto on sale for $40/lb was La Quercia, a good choice which only sells for $20/lb in more reasonable establishments, like Whole Foods headquarters back home. La Quercia itself is the kind of culinary fusion that brings the best thing about Iowa, its hogs, into intimate contact with the best thing about Italy, Parma, producing a beautiful international incident, the product of which is just a sliver away from being so good as to be instantly fatal.]

The problem with Zingerman’s, is that once you sit down to eat your frenetically chosen sandwich, you can’t help but notice that beyond the thin conceit of premium food and deep deli culture, the actual sandwich simply does not justify its price. My choice of a take on bagel and lox was constructed more as a parody than anything else. Even cut rate Jewish delis (now being run by decidedly non-Jewish proprietors) are loath to deviate from the sacred ratio of lox to cream cheese that makes that particular concept work. The laughably small amount of salmon, and the inappropriate choice for a bagel base, made the entire montage sort of delicately crumble. When the proportions were proper, which really only happened for like a total of three bites, the sandwich really worked, but the rest of the eating experience was a kind of frustrated herding of various components into properly sized bites. Things turned far more messy than I would have desired for this particular brand of $15 sandwich.

It sort of hard to fault a place for capitalizing on its particular and prescient concept. Today, with things like slow and organic food movements carving bigger slices out of our eating attention, Zingerman’s is an established and successful entity that’s been doing this for years longer than these ideas have been on most people’s radar. And it may be too early to get picky as people who can begin to move beyond the rigid confines of the super market middle aisles and fast food franchises of our perversely subsidized food culture, but why not save your pennies for the farmer’s market next door and spend an afternoon making something you like with people you love at home?

The best way to describe this dining experience, is that Dick and Jenny’s is the gateway drug of gourmet establishments. The unassuming atmosphere and ambiance, the low key wait staff and locale, the unassuming place settings (half the silver of Commander’s Palace), all contribute to a feeling that an entrée of fries and a hot dog will be just as likely to come out of the kitchen as the upscale creole fare that actually does. If you are not a gourmet, and typically shy away from upscale culinary experiences, you might find yourself becoming hooked by the end of a meal here.

The surprise star of the meal was the wine, a 2007 Grüner Veltliner that we chose since they ran out of our first choice, and favorite white varietal, Viognier. Anastasia and I often battle over sweet versus dry whites, and both of these types of wine provide an elegant compromise between both flavors.

We ordered the appetizer sampler of fried oysters (somewhat pedestrian), BBQ shrimp cheesecake (a delight!) and fried tomatoes (mostly sweet with a hint of sour, a classic I’ve never had before). I ordered the duck duet, which was initially off-putting given the smokiness of the duck breast, a preparation I normally associate with hardier cuts of beef. I grew to like the dish, which paired nicely with both the wine and our other entrée, shrimp with scallops, an entirely lighter approach to food, and a welcome balance to the flavor heavy creole cuisine elsewhere in the meal.

The desserts were the weakest part of the experience. We finished with an entirely uninteresting banana-misu and chocolate moose cake. Good, not great, but at that point the place had already won us over.

Bayona, Susan Spicer’s French Quarter establishment, was the most polished, complete-in-concept meal of our gustatory vacation. The restaurant is a block north of Bourbon St. on Rue Dauphine. Having arrived to the Quarter early by streetcar, we decided to walk down Bourbon during the rather tame 7 o’clock hour. Only a block north, Rue Dauphine is both socially and societally different from its lower neighbor. Gentleman’s clubs and bars give way to an almost classically serene French Quarter community in the span of only a few feat.

Some gradients in New Orleans are sharper than others.

We were still early for our 7:30 seating and waited momentarily in a sitting room to the side of the maître d’ station, among wine racks, cookbooks (including the proprietor’s own) and various other volumes on food and wine. This is where they choose to stash the four star award from Mobil Travel Guide. I still find it strange how rating services like Mobil or Michelin exist in some kind of synergistic brand space with automotive related companies, though I suppose the automotive revolution made modern notions of travel and tourism possible. To live in the day when restaurant and lodging recommendations ran along side instructions for car maintenance…

The Zagat recommendation was more prominently displayed.

We began our meal with two appetizers, the oyster and Italian sausage gratin and the sweetbreads with sherry mustard butter sauce. The sweetbreads were flirting with over-salted, but were deliciously balanced with beets and potatoes.  The oyster gratin was well seasoned, with layers of complex flavor and an easy, approachable texture. I do wish that the Italian sausage was more pronounced.

I had a glass of Cabernet/Merlot blend. A forgettable wine, but the choice of a blend moderated the heftiness of a normal Cabernet and made for a nice pairing with my entrée, peppered lamb loin with a sweet potato puree. Anastasia ordered a special entrée, pork chop with mangoes, pineapple and coconut wild rice. My dish was technically sound, cooked to a perfect medium-rare, and complete in concept if lacking in some inspiration. The pork chop was a bolder stab at something new, with shades of Asian influence in the flavors. The dish was somewhat undone by the ratio of chop to other elements.

For dessert we had chocolate vacherin, a meringue crust filled with crème Chantilly and fruit, along with pistachio pot de creme with phyllo wrapped pear and pomegranate sorbet. The chocolate did not do quite enough to moderate the acidity and fruity sweetness of the vacherin, resulting in a flavor that was very single note. It was a nice single note, just not the one I was looking for. The glass of port I finished the meal with (Dow’s LBV 2001) served as a better endnote than the dessert itself. The pistachio pot de creme was quite good, particularly paired with the pomegranate sorbet. The pear was the least convincing element of the trio.

We ate at Lüke last night. A pleasing brasserie with better appetizers and desserts than entrées. Anastasia tells me that a brasserie is roughly the French equivalent of a grill, and that the primary requirement is that fries must appear on the menu. Clearly I was predisposed to liking the place.

Anastasia had the prix fixe special with a cup of crawfish bisque (pleasingly seasoned and authentically crustaceous) to start. I ordered the rabbit and duck liver pâté, served with cornichons, a wonderful marmalade, mustard, and a kind of pickled fruit (apple?). The presentation was delightful.

Our main courses (shrimp stuffed with crabmeat, pasta with veal cheeks and mushroom sauce) were unremarkable except for the deliciously prepared vegetable sides. The green beans were particularly delightful. We ended the meal sharing (to Anastasia’s later regret considering how surprisingly good it was) another order of (this time chocolate flavored) crème brûlée.

We started the meal with two sazerac cocktails. Obviously well made, and entirely outside the flavor range with which I’m comfortable. I’m a long way from my younger years, when I had the taste for flavor adventure, ingesting such indescribable bitters as straight shots of unicum. We ended the meal with half a bottle remaining of pinot noir, which, this being New Orleans, we were able to bring back with us.

To some extent, locals must be in on the joke. Commander’s Palace is something of an iconic local establishment, but the things it’s known for tend to be just slightly over the line of good taste. We attended their jazz brunch on Saturday and were greeted by something approaching nine pieces of silverware — yet no butter-knife. The decor was pleasing, if not as convincingly attractive as we were led to believe, but the party balloons at each table (I’m assuming part of the brunch theme since they were repeated on the back of our menus) gave the slight impression that we had crashed a seven year old’s birthday party. The jazz trio (a guitar, bass, trumpet) were capable, obviously familiar with the particular acoustic requirements of the venue, and generally charming.

The meal was mixed. My seafood gumbo was authentically dark (as Top Chef taught). Anastasia’s turtle soup was appropriately flavored with sherry, though I found the turtle meat to be entirely too gritty. My entrée, braised short ribs, hash browns (they had a fancier name on the menu) and hen’s egg was a delicious play on the steak and eggs standard. Anastasia ordered the sportsman’s breakfast, which was a clearly an overreach in terms of concept (shredded under-seasoned duck meat, shredded carrots, underwhelming pancake with walnut glaze, poached egg) and technically flawed to boot (the egg was badly under-poached, bleeding not a satisfying yolky yellow but a milky white on puncturing). We sent it back in exchange for fried red fish in bechamel, a simpler and better tasting alternative.

We also ordered bloody marys, after seeing other guests with these intriguing red cocktails finished table side with a generous pour of iced vodka (the bottle itself was encased in ice, a theatrical touch considering that our drinks were appropriately close to room temperature). We didn’t so much drink these cocktails, as eat them, or rather let them, with their Cajun kick, eat us. Highly recommended, but perhaps too robust to finish.

Our waiter provided complimentary cocktail samples prior to desert, a kick of acid and alcohol that mingled pleasingly with our bloody marys and entrees. I ordered the bread pudding soufflé with white whiskey glaze. Superb. Anastasia ordered the crème brûlée served in a wide shallow dish instead of a deeper ramekin. This is an ideal preparation for those of us who enjoy extended caramelized crusts.