Drinking Like You Mean It

By Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

Here’s something I don’t understand: We Swatties consider ourselves cultured, learned, probably better than you. We decry the lack of good food in the Ville, support the Good Food Project’s organic gardens, and whine about sausage bar. But the same people who you hear complaining about dining services can inevitably be found on any given Friday night sipping from a plastic cup filled with off-brand coke and the cheapest rum money can buy. We get mad when Sharples overcooks its rice, but when DU serves us something vaguely sweet and yellowish out of a plastic tub we go back for seconds. Why are we so demanding in our food and so willing to drink such crap?

Case in point: the Halloween party. Long a bastion of drunkenness and debauchery (I can’t blame ML for kicking it out), you don’t expect much from what’s served there aside from the ability to get you wasted, and fast. I took a cup of whatever was out on the bar, took a sip, and nearly spit it right back out. I understand the goal here was to provide vast quantities of drinks on the cheap, but Kool-Aid? That’s just uncalled for. Why not buy some cheap OJ, mix the vodka with that, and have a half-decent screwdriver? From the looks of things, people didn’t much seem to care, but at the least it’ll make finicky columnists like me and Aaron happy. Kudos to the International Club and others who’ve put some creativity (and real fruit juice!) into their offerings; to anyone else with a party permit, really, all I need’s a vodka cranberry and I’m set.

You don’t have to spend a fortune to drink well. While I appreciate a $60 bottle of Brunello as much as anybody, I spent $8.99 this weekend on a Mirassou Winery pinot noir from California that was just lovely, perfect for sipping on Parrish beach in the sun. For under ten bucks you can get a Little Penguin shiraz, a Kendall Jackson Riesling, or any number of good, solid, though perhaps less-exalted wines. Most reliable are shiraz and syrah, and I’m a fan of the big, powerful southern Italian reds like montepulcianos and primitivos. I wouldn’t wish a merlot or a malbec on anyone, but that’s just me. I rarely spend more than ten or twelve on a bottle, and with a little discretion (red flags go up for the $3 “Italian table wine”) things usually come out well.

But why stop at wine when there’s mixed drinks to be had? What the fancy distilleries don’t want you to know is that if you strain cheap vodka through some fishtank charcoal and coffee filters (or a dedicated Brita), your Bankers Club can come out tasting like Grey Goose. (And even if you can’t taste the difference, you’ll appreciate the less-obnoxious hangovers.) My first bit of advice to anyone hoping to move up the cocktail ladder is to invest in a copy of Old Mr. Boston’s Official Bartender’s Guide, probably the best couple of bucks I ever spent towards alcohol paraphernalia. Mixing a drink is like cooking; a good recipe book is invaluable. And once you’ve got the recipes, feel free to ignore them – I’ve substituted grapefruit juice for lemon, rum for brandy, and cranberry juice for blue food coloring and still ended up with some awfully tasty results; use what you’ve got. Unusual flavors can be surprisingly good – ouzo with orange juice, green tea with whiskey, almost anything with pomegranate. It’s nice to have a well-stocked bar of mixers, but a few Tarble meals spent on juice will serve you just fine.

Another thing to keep in mind is that vodka soaks up flavors like nothing else. Pour some into a water bottle, add flavor, soak overnight, and you’ve done Absolut Citron one better. A few drops of vanilla extract in a bottle makes for a smoother drink without all that obnoxious extra sugar Smirnoff’s throws in. Some things to try: orange peel, cinnamon, a slice of fruit, a teabag. I experimented with soaking some hot peppers to make spicy vodka and came up with the recipe below. We claim to be academia’s elite, now let’s start drinking like it.

Sugar & Spice Cocktail
1 part vodka in which dried chili peppers have been soaked
2 parts crème de cacao (or a dollop of chocolate syrup)
1 part milk
splash of amaretto (optional)
cinnamon
Mix well. Sweet at first, ends with a kick.

Published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-04-26/living/17315

Cheap & Easy

By Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

I’m all for enjoying the finer things in life – a nice chianti, a Chopin prelude, Renoir. Even so, there are times when a quick post-Paces romp in the amphitheater with someone who’s name you think you might know can be even more satisfying than the long, champagne-and-roses-inspired romantic evening with that special someone. It was in that spirit that I headed into the city to explore that ubiquitous and underappreciated feature of the Philadelphia culinary landscape, the lunch truck.

In Manhattan, in midtown at least, you can get a bag of roasted almonds or a pretzel on any corner. In Philly you can do one better: There’s udon with kimchi, burritos, even curried goat and callaloo if you know where to look, and all for less than you’d pay for a sandwich at most places nowadays. Because of the abundance of options, I followed a few rules in my explorations. 1) Only one item per stop. My stomach is only so big, and there’s a lot of ground to cover. 2) Only one truck per ethnicity. I could write a whole book on just the Mexican lunch trucks in University City, and another on just the Chinese ones, and another on the cheesesteak-and-kielbasa stands, and the list goes on. For now I’ve only got 800 words, so once again a limit had to be imposed. 3) Only a few bites of any given meal. Gotta leave room for the rest. (Anybody want leftovers?) But on to the eating.

Not knowing where exactly to find the trucks, I took SEPTA to University City and started walking in the general direction of UPenn. I came upon La Comadre in a little parking lot at the corner of 33^rd and South Streets, just past the Penn stadium and next to another truck selling Chinese food. The menu there is simple: soft tacos, burritos, nachos, all for under five bucks. I ordered a chicken quesadilla for $2.75. It turned out to be exactly that and no more: chicken and melted cheese on a tortilla, with no frills. A little on the bland side but surprisingly non-greasy. A promising beginning.

A few blocks later I hit another enclave of trucks on the corner of 34^th and Walnut. Seems they tend to clump. There was one selling fresh fruit, another with mostly sausage and pretzels (and, I discovered, some pretty solid hot chocolate), and a one more with a longer menu and a crowd in front. I went with the third option. Their specialty seemed to be sandwiches, with breakfast bagels looking to be especially popular (hey, I got an early start), and, intriguingly, a few kinds of spaghetti. In what I now recognize as a clear dereliction of duty, I passed on the pasta and ordered a grilled cheese on white bread ($2). It was everything street food should be – hot, gooey, greasy, and rich with the unmistakable flavor of fake butter and processed cheese. Deeelish.

It was on 38^th St. that I hit lunch truck gold. Between Baltimore Ave. and Walnut St. were nine different options. I skipped Bui’s, Hemo’s, and Steak Queen, all standard cheesesteak & sandwich places, and went straight on to the more interesting ones. First off was Frite American Crepe, on Spruce & 38^th. The menu is wide-ranging, from panini to pierogies (sadly sold out til Easter) to the eponymous fruit crepes, all made fresh by hand. The proprietor caught me taking notes, made the connection, and gave me some hand-cut fries and interesting dips to try out while he was making my crepe. All awfully good, especially with the creamy chive dip. The crepe too lived up to its prominent spot on the menu; though I suspect the prospect of a good review might have gotten me an extra squirt of whipped cream. I’m not complaining.

Next truck down was Dulette’s Jamaican Wings, whose menu features such temptations as oxtail, curried goat, and even steamed red snapper, if you have the foresight to order a day in advance. I got an order of jerk chicken, which came with two sides – I picked fried plantains and mac & cheese. The macaroni was great, the plantains a little too greasy, and the chicken a little pink but pretty good, even if they tasted more like Texas barbeque than Jamaican jerk.

The menu at Tue Kee Chinese Food took up the entire side of the truck, covering everything from chicken lo mein to mock sharkfin soup, with a special section for “fast items,” labeled as taking only 5 minutes to prepare. There was a big group of Chinese-speaking men in business suits standing in front when I arrived, which I took as a good sign. My “Beijing spicy noodles” cost only $2.50 for a pint, but I have to disagree with the “spicy” part of the name – a little chili oil but no kick. Next time I’m ordering shark fins.

Quite possibly the best meal I tasted all afternoon was form Hanan House of Pita just down the block. The list of gyro, kefta, and zucchini sandwiches and platters was extensive; I went for falafel with hummus and feta. So good. There was just the right amount of harissa and hummus, and she didn’t skimp on the tomato and cucumber. For $3.75, you’re not gonna do any better outside of the East Village.

My last planned stop was at Koja, a Japanese/Korean truck just north of Walnut on 38^th. It’s a little pricier than the others; most dishes fall in the $4-6 range. But my $5 chicken sukiyaki soba involved a lot of food – two fried dumplings, a mountain of noodles, and a little container of kimchi, all pretty tasty. Go on a Friday – they’ve got a Korean version of sushi.

Walking back towards the train station with about 5,000 calories worth of uneaten lunch in my bag, I found I had missed the motherlode. Turns out that Spruce St. around 37^th has about 10 lunch trucks, just waiting for the hungry masses of Penn students to descend upon them after class. There was Mexican, three different Chinese places, fresh fruit, crepes, Middle Eastern, you name it. Unfortunately, the shortage of room left in my stomach combines with rule #2 made it impossible to do much more than just gawk. I did get a bite from Magic Carpet, a vegetarian truck with offerings from tempeh salad to curry to burritos. For the sake of variety (and my crippling fear of tofu meatballs), I ordered a jambalaya, which probably would have been great if I liked green peppers. Still, after spending a total of only about $30 for eight full meals, if that’s my biggest disappointment of the day I’m doing pretty well. Score one for the fast and cheap.

Link to (shorter) published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-04-12/living/17218

Dude, Where's My Pita Chips?

By Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

“Have you given your colon a good workout lately?” Recent bathroom experiences aren’t usually what I want to be thinking about at dinner, but anyone at the Sharples Nutrition and Wellness dinner was faced with that question, printed on hard-to-ignore neon orange placards on each table. Unappetizing slogans aside, I was pretty pleased by the Wellness dinner. The food was better than usual (miso soup!), the bananas were organic, and they were handing out pita chips. What more could you ask for?

Some follow-up, perhaps. Sharples is many things, but I have never before seen it be such a tease. Okay, so we got a new trans-fat-free popcorn machine, whoop-dee-doo. Will I ever see that miso soup again, or the trail mix? Doubtful. I daren’t even hope for those pita chips. I admire that Dining Services is making the effort to introduce more organic and healthy items. But please, don’t preach at us about the benefits of fiber and low-fat protein, taunt us with organic bliss potatoes, and then serve us pizza bar the next day. And how about some helpful tips on those bright-orange placards? “Avoid caffeine beyond morning.” Yeah sure. “Avoid sugary and deep fried foods.” And what’s on the menu for today? Wing bar, cupcakes, and fried yucca. Lets face it, most of us don’t have the fortitude to skip the wings and put together a salad; we’ll eat what you put in front of us, no matter what our rational minds know about the connection between a daily cheese steak and the freshman fifteen. The angle sitting on my right shoulder may say spinach, but the devil on my left shoulder is yelling curly fries, and it’s gonna win every time. I’m not saying Sharples should close down the grill and give us Caesar salad bar every day; I fully support the inalienable right to cheeseburger whenever you feel like it (and I hate Caesar salad). But please, make life a little easier for those of us who want to go easy on the arteries. I’ll feel much better about my bowl of mac ‘n’ cheese if I know at least that the cheese is organic. And some pita chips wouldn’t hurt either.

There’s one feature of the wellness dinner I know I will be seeing more of, and I’m not happy about it. Anyone tried to get a cup of tea lately? Where there used to be a rack of teabags, there’s now three kinds of pre-brewed Cynthia’s Premium Tea. Sounds good, right? Have you tasted the stuff? The wellness dinner featured a fountain of their Citrus Fusion Herbal Blend, and I’m being generous when I describe it as tasting like warm, pink, slightly sweet water, with a hint of middle-school girl perfume. I’ve sampled two of the three other options, and they’re uniformly cloyingly sweet, pitifully week, and unpleasantly fruity. Want a nice astringent cup of green tea? You’re stuck with Green Passion Fruit, which would taste like something out of a Bath and Body Works sampler pack if it were strong enough to have any flavor at all. Looking for some Earl Grey? Peppermint? Chamomile? Tough luck, go to Tarble. The lovely little flyer they handed out near the tea fountain claims that tea may decrease the incidence of cancer, heart disease, tooth decay, and allergies, among other things, but I won’t be reaping any of those health benefits if the tea is undrinkable. I was, until last Wednesday, a two-cups-a-day devotee, fueled by Sharples green and Darjeeling. Since then, faced by the rapid dwindling of my points account at the coffee bars, I’m down to two cups a week. Thank you, Sharples, for breaking me of my caffeine addiction.

There’s a valuable lesson to be learned from this: Just because something is labeled “premium” doesn’t mean it’s any good. Alright, lesson learned, let’s move on, back to bagged tea. Pros: There’s a wider choice of flavors. I can brew mine dark as hell and you can keep it mild and we’re both happy, none of this communal pot stuff. There’s no need for the big “DO NOT TOUCH” signs by the percolators. Cons: People take teabags home with them, which costs Dining Services some extra money. But does that really cost more than buying hand-plucked premium tea? C’mon, Sharples, give us individualists a break and bring back the bags. And all the money you’ll save? Spend it on pita chips.

Published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-03-29/living/17117

Rapture at First Retsina

By Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

At first I thought it was a just passing fancy, a spring break fling that would set my evenings ablaze for one short week and then fizzle as soon as I got on the plane home. It started in a little café in Athens, with the Acropolis illuminated on the hill above us looking like a postcard. I was on spring break from my study abroad program in Italy, traveling with my old roommate, Nina; Greece was nearby and cheap. The street was lined with chic-looking restaurants and cafes all angling for their share of the tourist dollars flowing through the place; we compared menus and chose the one with the least obnoxious maitre d’ out front. Everything looked good. To avoid deciding, we each ordered several appetizers to share, and for wine a bottle of retsina (only because I’d heard of it before). First to arrive was a concoction billed as “Cretan dacos,” made with feta, hot pepper, and tomatoes on a hunk of hard brown bread. I closed my eyes and cut off a slice. It was love at first bite.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of feta, garlic, and good wine. We staggered out of the restaurant satisfied and sleepy. (Cigarette, anyone?) The next day’s lunch was the same, then dinner, and on and on for five days of gastronomical bliss. Partly it was the novelty – after three months of monogamy with pasta, which my host mom served as the first of three courses every night at dinner, souvlaki was a welcome diversion. Nina was in the middle of a semester in Scotland, land of fried snickers bars, and in need of a break from hot oil. It was a thrilling week, not a strand of spaghetti or boiled haggis in sight. We experimented with tavernas, tourist traps, and one vegetarian restaurant which blew my mind. A casual run-in with tzatziki, a slightly spicy cucumber/garlic/yogurt dip, turned into a passionate affair; we ordered it at every lunch.

And the wine, oh the wine… I’ve had some experience with wines, but retsina was unlike anything I’d had before; the pine resin used in fermentation gave it an herbal flavor, like sage. The reds were rich and voluptuous; I usually don’t like whites, but these were sweet and playful on the tongue. One thing led to another, until one more adventurous evening saw my maiden encounter with ouzo, the heady liquorice-flavored spirit that is the Greek’s answer to vodka. The morning after found us sitting at a cafe on the island of Naxos eating sweetened yogurt, the best use I’ve come across yet for a drizzle of honey. And all of it not just easy on the eyes but gentle on the wallet.

Like any relationship, it wasn’t without the occasional rough patch; a cheap lunch passed along something nasty that kept both Nina and I out of the game for a day or so until the symptoms had passed. (Bird flu? Menelaus’ revenge? Who knows.) And we weren’t entirely faithful ourselves – there was one back-alley tryst involving some of the best tom kha I’ve ever eaten. But for a brief few days the pleasure we encountered on each plate made even those small indiscretions forgivable.

The break ended and I flew back to Italy, where I went back to my old, comfortable relationship with fettuccini bolognaise, never expecting to see moussaka again. And for a long time I didn’t. Then, back in the states for the summer, I came home one day to find my little sister sitting at the kitchen table snacking on a container of feta, and the old longings were reawakened. I grabbed a spoon. It’s not the same as it was, and as long as I’m on this side of the Atlantic I doubt it will be, but I found a decent tzatziki recipe, I make regular use of the feta at Sharples, and my bar is stocked with a big bottle of ouzo. I’ll never forget my first time, but while I’m here I’ll take what I can get.

Pseudo-Greek Salad, Sharples Style

Spinach leaves, chopped (salad bar, dinner only on weekdays)
Cucumbers, chopped (salad bar)
Shredded arrots (salad bar)
Feta cheese (salad bar)
Cherry tomatoes (salad bar) or tomato slices, chopped (sandwich bar)
Garlic powder & red pepper flakes to taste (wok station)
Oil (salad bar) or, better yet, BYO olive oil
Top with plain yogurt (salad bar) and/or a squeeze of lemon (the cooler by the teas)
Pile everything on a plate and mix. Eat with a pita (sandwich bar).

Published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-03-08/living/16999

Django Swings

by Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

Usually I avoid writing restaurant reviews. I mean, the Ville only offers so many options, most of which you’ve probably already tasted, and how often do most people spend the time and money to go into Philly or Media for a meal? I could tell you all about my evenings at Pod (mindblowing) and Chris’ Jazz Café (“Come for dinner, leave for dessert”), but that wouldn’t be terribly useful. But I recently had a dining experience worth spending some ink on: Dinner at Django.

Restaurant Week in Philly was in late January; I didn’t mention it because by the time you read about it my column, there’s no way you’d be able to get a reservation. In fact, I called two weeks ahead of time and still barely got squeezed in. My first choice, a tapas place called Amada that’s said to make some of the best food in the city, was booked solid. Next I called Django looking for a Sunday night table. Nope. Monday night? Nope. Anything, anything at all? Apparently their tables for the week were snatched up so quickly that they’d decided to extend Restaurant Week for another six days, and I was in luck: They’d just had a cancellation for Wednesday the 7^th and could reserve me a table for two. I took it.

Django is not the sort of place you stop for a quick bite with friends after a class at Penn; it is the sort of place you go with your parents when they come to visit, or with a date you really want to impress and don’t mind spending some money on. It’s named after Django Reinhardt, the gypsy jazz guitarist who reigned over the Paris jazz scene in the 1930’s, and that mentality pervades the restaurant. The cuisine is French – not the fussy, starched-napkin, snobbier-than-thou French I do my damnedest to avoid but an earthier, more rustic version, like you’d imagine being served at a little village inn in the countryside somewhere. The décor fits that same description; it’s a small, cozy space, with wooden tables, pottery and paintings on the walls, and dim lighting, all very homey and warm.

I was accompanied for the evening by my friend Nina, and we were shown to a tiny table in the back, from which I had a great view into their even tinier kitchen. A waitress presented us with the menus and an amuse bouche, described as a “BLT tart”: pancetta, tomato, wilted arugula, and garlic aioli. Wow. The best part was, Nina’s a vegetarian, so I got to eat hers too. Next came the bread, baked in a flowerpot and tasting fresh and warm from the oven. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever had better bread at a restaurant. We asked for a second loaf.

The first course took a while coming, but it was well worth the wait. My roasted tomato bisque, though it tasted a little too strongly of sharp cheddar, went beautifully with the “petit croquettes madams,” a tiny ham-and-cheese sandwich with a truly petit farmers egg on top, that was served alongside it. Nina’s onion turnover was beyond delicious, crispy and warm and well-complimented by a dollop of smoky crème fraiche.

The main course was a little less impressive, but still solidly done. I ordered a pork cassoulet, like a stew with white beans, cheese, and a big chunk of meat in the middle. The bean mixture was gloppy and rich and satisfying, but the meat was a little bland, and the whole thing would have benefited from a touch less salt. Nina’s entrée, a vegetarian tasting plate, was similarly uneven. The leek and tomato salad was fantastic – people should really serve leeks more often, the they’re delicious – but the saffron bisque tasted sort of odd, with hints of candied orange peel and again too much salt.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a wonderful dinner in an upscale restaurant only to be disappointed at the end with a beautiful but tasteless dessert. (Case in point: Chris’ Jazz Café, where the French onion soup was delectable but the chocolate cake, at $6 a slice, tasted like someone had defrosted a Sarah Lee, spiffed up the icing, and served it to me.) Django’s desserts weren’t quite on par with their dinners, but they were certainly much better than a lot of places do. We split a goat cheese cake, which was an interesting and mostly-successful experiment on their part, and a chocolate-almond terrine which, aside from a slight burnt-sugar taste to the bottom layer of cake, was wonderfully creamy and delicious.

The bill came to $37 each including tax and tip, which for a three-course meal of that caliber isn’t bad. It’s BYOB, so you won’t have alcohol inflating your bill, though carting your own bottle of wine into Philly on the train can be a bit of a pain. Though the meal had its shortcomings, I would definitely go back to Django for dinner – plans for Parents’ Weekend, anyone?

Published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-02-22/living/16919

Chocolate Savvy

by Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

Valentines Day is coming up fast – what are you buying? We all know the drill: If you’re part of a twosome, it’s all about chocolate, red roses and champagne; if you’re not, double the chocolate, cut the flowers and exchange the champagne for something a little stronger. But with ten kinds of flowers, fifteen of champagne, and more brands of bon-bons than I’d care to contemplate on store shelves, which to choose? The roses I can’t help you with – you’ll have to find a horticulture columnist for that – and champagne’s not really my thing, but chocolate, well… For the sake of journalistic integrity, I’ll give my bias up front: I’m a chocolate snob. In my oh-so-humble opinion, the only thing better than a Lindt 85% chocolate bar is a Hachez 88%. So if Hershey’s with almonds is your thing, you may disagree with my evaluations. What can I say? You’re wrong. But on to the tasting.

If you really want to impress that special someone, a box of assorted truffles from Pierre Marcolini’s on the Place du Grand Sablon in Brussels. If a trans-Atlantic flight seems excessive (and I’d argue it’s not), go for Lindt instead. I tasted a box of their Petits Desserts collection, where each candy was modeled after a different dessert. It was beautifully presented and mostly very good, but a little uneven. The macaroon was warm and almondy and the meringue was delicious with hints of hazelnut, but the brownie tasted strangely of raisins and we couldn’t tell the difference between the lemon tart and the crème brulée, which was especially surprising given how fantastic their crème brulée chocolate bar is. But Lindt is generally a reliable brand, and you could certainly do worse than this box.

If your true love is a Nutella fan, see if you can’t find them a bag of Baci by Perugina. I’m told that hazelnuts were first paired with chocolate during World War II, when chocolate supplies ran low and candy makers in Turin used the ground-up nuts to stretch their chocolate supply. Now it’s nearly impossible to find a chocolate bar in Europe without hazelnuts, and I honestly don’t understand why American companies don’t do the same. And baci means “kisses” in Italian, which makes it that much more appropriate for the holiday.

Harry and David may be famous for selling mail-order pears at exorbitant prices, but they make an awfully tasty truffle as well. The inside, dark and rich, smooth and creamy, was better than the outside which tasted a little off. They’re rather pricy though; for what you pay you’d be better off with the Lindt.

One brand which is a perennial favorite is Ghirardelli, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I tried their squares with mint filling and was not impressed. The chocolate had an odd, bitter flavor, and the too-sweet mint filling was gooey and overpowering. My advice: skip these.

Just for well-roundedness, I had to taste Russel Stover. The price was the first hint that something might be wrong. While the other boxes were in the three-to-eight-dollar range, this little heart-shaped package with a cartoon face on the front cost me exactly one dollar and nineteen cents plus tax. Inside was something brown and sugary; I’m not sure what to call it but it sure as hell wasn’t chocolate. Wax and corn syrup, perhaps. Actually, according to the ingredients list on the package, the first ingredient is chocolate (first ingredient of that: sugar) followed by sugar, then corn syrup, and, farther down the list, brown sugar. Figures. (In the Harry and David batch, chocolate liquor – a liquid extracted from cocoa beans, not an alcoholic beverage – is listed first, and, unlike in the Russel Stover batch, I can pronounce all the ingredients.) One truffle even tasted soapy. A side effect of the sodium metabisulfite? Who knows. In any case, I’m staying away.

But the best of the lot, and it’s truly difficult for me to say this, was actually made by Hershey’s. I bought a tin of their Cacao Reserve 65% dark chocolate truffle at CVS after hearing a friend rave about them. I gritted my teeth. I took a bite. And though a little part of me dies inside every time every time I admit it, the chocolate was good. Not perfect – the texture’s a little chalky, there’s a bit of a sour undertone to the flavor – but good. I’d go back for a second. But that still doesn’t mean I’d be caught dead with a bar of Special Dark.

As for the champagne: I’m not a big fan of the bubbly myself, but friends who are tell me that there are plenty of good options out there that won’t suck your textbook fund dry. A German sekt, Italian spumante, or other sparkling wines will often cost less and still taste pretty good. And if you insist that it say “champagne” on the label, a domestic bottle is probably cheaper than the French stuff, and there are many who prefer its flavor. For me, I’ll stick to the chocolate.

Published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-02-15/living/16867

Eating Away at the Post-Nasal Drip

By Emily Gasser | Mental Mastication

Break is over, and once again it’s that special time of year when the bookstore sells out of Kleenex, Worth rushes to refill their Sudafed stash and huge honking nose-blows interrupt every lecture. It’s January, high season for colds, coughs, flus and every other virus-born illness around, and most of us will probably soon find ourselves suffering from Attack of the Phlegm. Let’s face it – as much rehydrated Sharples oj as we may gulp down in a vain search for nutrients, the constant stress, late nights and less-than-stunningly-nutritious diet (no, a screwdriver does not count as fruit, and those little bits of parsley in your ramen are hardly vegetables) that most of us submit ourselves to doesn’t exactly work wonders for the immune system. But once the plague hits – or better yet, before it does – there are a few remedies worth trying to help stave off upper-respiratory distress. And this being a column devoted to pleasures of the palate, I’m not talking faux-cherry cough syrup.

Step one: Garlic. Most exalted of spices, as well one of the most universal – you find me a cuisine that doesn’t use garlic, and I’ll show you a severely deprived set of taste buds. In addition to being just plain delicious, garlic also kills everything it touches; according to the National Institutes of Health, the chemical allicin, found in garlic (aka allium sativum), has strong anti-bacterial, anti-viral, anti-fungal and anti-parasitic properties. Wards off vampires, tapeworm and the common cold. True, nobody wants to kiss a girl with garlic breath, but post-nasal drip doesn’t exactly bring in the hotties either. The bad news is garlic in the dining hall is generally limited to the powder variety, which has a high stink quotient and little to no allicin. The Co-op, however, sells whole heads for $2.49 a pound. Boil it in broth, swallow it whole, it’s all good, but the easiest way to down the stuff is roasted. Put a head of garlic on a sheet of tinfoil, cover with a tablespoon of olive oil, wrap it up in the foil, and leave it in a 350-degree oven for 45 minutes. Let it cool, cut the top off, and spread it on toast. The flavor’s mild enough to eat it plain, or you can be adventurous and add cayenne (hot pepper is also anti-microbial, and anyone with wasabi experience will tell you how fast spicy food can clear out stuffy nasal passages) or melted cheese (brie is classic; mozzarella and feta are readily available at the Sharples salad bar). Cheese also gives you a hit of zinc, shown to shorten a cold by half. The best way to get it, says the NIH, is from oysters, but until Sharples introduces Raw Bar, hit the burger line; it’s also found in beef.

Step two: Green tea. Full of antioxidants, which boost the immune system, plus it’s just nice to breathe in those warm vapors when your lungs are not at their best. If you’ve got access to some fresh ginger, and if you can walk to the Co-op you do, cut off a bit of that and let it steep a few minutes; it’s possibly anti-bacterial and certainly another good source of antioxidants. A squeeze of lemon juice (from the little cooler by the tea) adds vitamin C. There’s debate over how much C actually helps with colds, but at least you know you won’t get scurvy. And honey (condiment bar) has long been known to be anti-microbial; the Romans used it to clean wounds in battle. And one added benefit: It’s no cup o’ joe, but green tea does have significant caffeine content. It won’t fuel an all-nighter, but unless you’ve inured yourself with a semester’s worth of Red Bull it should keep you going through that last problem set of the evening.

To wash it all down: Maybe you shouldn’t completely cut out the screwdrivers after all. We all know from 8^th-grade health class that alcohol is a poison, and that applies as well to whatever germs it may encounter in your gullet. You’ve seen what a mixed drink or two can do to that underweight freshman girl down the hall; imagine its effect on a virus one hundred-millionth her size (give or take). As wholesome a source as Reader’s Digest online lists “hygienic soak” as an alternate use for vodka. Grapefruit, orange and cranberry juices are all full of vitamin C. Not to say a night of heavy drinking will help things any, but a cosmo or two might not be such a bad thing.

In memorium: To conclude, I’d like to take a few words to remember Mr. Momofuku Ando, who died earlier this month in Ikeda, Japan at age 96. In 1958, Mr. Ando had an idea that would forever change eating on the cheap as we know it – he invented ramen noodles. Not the kind you eat at a noodle shop with an egg cracked on top, but the 69-cents-a-package late-night staple, sold by his company, Nissin Foods, as Cup Noodles and Top Ramen ($3.2 billion worth yearly). Who knew a sodium-laden package of noodles and dried peas could touch so many lives?

Published version: http://phoenix.swarthmore.edu/2007-01-25/living/16752