Tag Archives: Christmas foods

Best of the Midwest: Costco Lunch

For most of us, the holidays are all about tradition: we prepare spiral-cut ham and serve it on the good china, or watch Home Alone while eating kettlecorn and drinking hot toddies, or go caroling, or whatever. It’s no different for my family, except one of our traditions is eating lunch at Costco.

That’s right: my sister and I have made a habit of eating a Lunch of Samples at Costco. Here’s how it goes down: we choose a day when we know the pickins will be good,* drive our patooties to Costco, and bolt from sample station to sample station, grabbing our snax before they fall prey to the grubby hands of ten-year-olds. Do I feel bad about elbowing 10-year-olds out of my way? Hell no! Do you think those 1o-year-olds are paying for Costco memberships? Again, hell no! They can wait a damn minute to scarf tiny pizza triangles.

Per our own set of instructions, Ali, Mom, and I hit up the Coon Rapids Costco just after noon on Xmas eve. The parking lot was full; we knew our competition would be fierce. We weren’t worried, though: we’re seasoned pros, and we can throw elbows with the best of ’em.

We were in luck as soon as we stepped through the massive door: a lit’l old lady was serving miniature cups of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider. It had been years since I’d sipped this stuff; aside from being a bit sweet, it wasn’t bad. (Note: the juice’s sweetness isn’t enough to prevent me from drinking it in the future; it’s more subdued than all sodas and many of the zany cocktails I get.) My mom tossed a four-pack of bottles in our cart, and we moved on.

This lady greeted us as we waltzed through the door.

The Deli Area is the best sampling zone: the stations are condensed, requiring less movement on the part of the diner, and there are no tall shelves that might block the diner’s line of sight. As is typically the case, Sys and I found the best tidbits near the deli: Cabot Habanero Cheese (which was actually, legitimately spicy — and good), Basha hummus served on an elongated tortilla chip, and “Margherita” pizza, plated on an oil-streaked paper napkin. Margherita is in quotation marks because I detected neither tomato nor basil atop the pie. In fact, the crust tasted more like a lukewarm Ritz cracker than anything resembling pizza dough, but oh, well: you get what you (don’t) pay for.

The hummus was so-so — pretty typical store-bought hummus, if you want to know. What puzzled me was the sample lady’s addition of salsa to the snack. Is there anyone out there who serves (watery, Pace-picante-style) salsa with hummus? If so, what’s your motivation? I’m curious — really, I am.

Hummus with tortilla-chip wands and runny salsa. It's tradition, baby.

Stage II samplingtakes place in the frozen and paper goods sections. Back near the pallets of Brawny, I grabbed a dainty cup of Boylan’s all-natural root beer and slugged it back, fueling my quest for MOAR SAMPLES! (Note: I’m no root beer connoisseur, but this stuff was solid: spicy, not too sweet, and highly carbonated. Max carbonation is one quality I dig in a soda.)

The tiniest pizza slice in all the world. Note: it contains no visible basil.

Stage III sampling — the final stage — takes place from the end of frozen all the way to the checkout lanes. In this region of the store, sample stations are placed at the ends of the aisles; they’re more densely clustered in the snack food area (which abuts the checkout zone). During Stage III, Ali and I nibbled ultra-sweet canned Dole pineapple (which, OK, who in this country has not tasted canned pineapple before? This was a total throwaway, IMO), mild cheddar on pretzel thins, and antipasto on crackers.** I feel as though I’m forgetting something — indeed, I know I’m forgetting something. I want to say we also ate pretzel M&Ms, but that can’t be it: if that were the case, I wouldn’t have forgotten, so deep is my love for those candies.

Of the noted samples, the Cabot Habanero cheddar was the clear winner. It’s the only product I’d buy voluntarily, the only product that was, to put it simply, appetizing. To be fair, the frozen pizza wasn’t cooked long enough, but it also didn’t contain its namesake ingredients. Canned pineapple does nothing for me (except when frozen and used in lieu of ice cubes in tropically themed cocktails — then it’s fine). The cheddar on a pretzel thin was total nursery-school fare, and the root beer was just root beer.

As you’d imagine, the joy in this tradition derives not from the quality of the foods sampled, which is highly variable, but from the rush of excitement the process brings. Driving to that giant, concretey warehouse store, Ali and I were aflutter with anticipation: Would the lecherous Muffins Roadshow dude be there, luring us to his table with giant chunks of Chocolate-Chocolate Chip? Would the Deli Hunk be at his post behind the plate-glass windows? Would we have to barge through a group of toddlers to get the last pieces of deep-fried eggroll? Only time would tell.

Of course, it’s not a trip to Costco without a behemoth slice of cafe pizza. When Ali and I used to live in Western Mass, we’d drive to the Springfield Costco, where we’d stock up on Babybel cheeses and then get pizza slices for dinner. Even now, I grin when I think of this homey tradition. With its fantastically chewy crust and inches-thick cheese, the pizza was only so-so: bland at best, oil-slicked at worst. But, it was a food we could agree on — a food of our youth. Tearing open that foil packet of red pepper flakes never fails to transport me to the distant past.

This time around, sys and I split a piece of pizza. (In the photo above, you’ll note the bifurcation line, made by the cashier at our request.) The slice was exactly as I’d expected it to be, and from this constancy I derived great joy: I didn’t have to worry about whether the recipe had changed — of course it hadn’t. Costco pizza will always be Costco pizza, progress be damned, and that’s why I love it. Reactionary food for the masses: it’s what Christmas traditions are all about.

***

*The days prior to major holidays are a safe bet; last-minute shoppers will be out in droves, and the sample ladies will be at their posts, offering Dixie cups of Chex Mix and one-inch cubes of Monterey Cheddar. So it begins.

**Upon learning that this sample contained tuna, I tried to pawn mine off on my mom, telling the sample lady that I’m allergic to tuna. “She’s not allergic to tuna,” my mom countered, “she just doesn’t like it.” Which isn’t true: I like tuna! But I do not like the tuna surreptitiously included in weird, prepackaged, pseudo-Italian spreads, OK?

Advertisements

The once-yearly Dutch Baby

My family has two main Christmas traditions. The first is going to see a movie on Xmas afternoon, after the presents have been opened, admired, and left on the coffee table for a reasonable amount of time. I’m not sure when this cinematic pattern developed, but we’ve been seeing a holiday movie for as long as I can remember (i.e., for at least the last ten years. HA HA @ my faulty memory!). I suspect that this tradition’s origins lie in suburban Minnesota’s dearth of other suitable activities; not much is open on Xmas day, save gas stations and Showplace, and it’s too cold to do much outdoors.* This year, we saw True Grit and ZOMG: if you haven’t seen it, drop what you’re doing and drive quickly to a theater! It was so good that I am certainly going to see it again. Those of you who know my stance on Movie-Watching As Pastime know that this attests to the movie’s solidity.

Our other tradition is, appropriately, food-related. On Christmas morning, we’ve never eaten cereal or poached eggs, oatmeal or grits — no! None of that. We always make a Dutch Baby, domed, golden, and heavily dusted in powdered sugar. For those who’ve never had the pleasure of eating a Dutch Baby, know that the dish is prepared by pouring batter into a heated cast iron skillet into which approximately one stick of butter has been melted. The batter is baked for approximately 40 minutes; when the skillet is pulled from the oven, you have a beautiful pancake-popover hybrid on your hands. There’s nothing like it.

My wedge of Dutch Baby, 12/25/10.

The only fluid aspects of our Christmas breakfasts are the incidentals — beverages, condiments, and sides. Sometimes, we have fruit salad instead of sectioned grapefruit. Sometimes, we have breakfast meats. Once my sister and I came of age (drinkin’ age, that is!), we added mimosas to the menu. This year, inspired by a delectable drink I’ve had several times at Zazie, I suggested grapefruit juice mimosas. Ali pitched the idea of peach Andre instead of extra dry, and the Nectar of the Gods was delivered to our table.

Yes, in the Garklavs’ canon of tradition, the Dutch Baby signifies Christmas just as much as any fir tree or wreath or gaggle of ragamuffin youth caroling door-to-door. For this reason — and perhaps because of the vast quantities of butter involved — the Dutch Baby comes but once a year, on the heels of St. Nick.

***

*Unless you’re a real go-getter, which we aren’t.