Proof of Concept

It was in the middle of the night in September of 2008 when I first learned of the existence of bacon toffee. I was in the depths of a Master Cleanse. Not eating had me thinking of nothing but food. That was when I stumbled upon Derrick Schneider's An Obsession with Food, and with it, bacon toffee.

I had somehow linked to An Obsession with Food from another blog that I had completely scoured, Butter Pig. I had been staying up until five in the morning for several nights, incessantly reading food blogs and thinking of all these things I would make when I started eating food again. When the ten day fast had ended, I set out to knock things off my list.

The idea of a bacon candy intrigued me. I had had bacon and chocolate, and it was as good as it sounds, but bacon and toffee!? I made a few batches, some sucked: not reaching the right temp, not cracking, pulling fillings out, leaving napalmesque wounds on extremities, etc.—all the good stuff that can happen when making candy. Then I found my stride. It was about that time that I decided that I wanted to make cookies with chocolate chips and bacon toffee.

Nearly three years later, this idea has finally come to fruition. Since I now work in a kitchen, this idea has become more and more nagging in my mind. The idea was poo-pooed by a co-worker a few times, but now he's gone. We have a burgeoning ice cream program, too. The Universe spoke to me, and it said: "Flapjacks, you must make bacon toffee chocolate chip coffee ice cream sandwiches, it is your destiny."

I listened.

This first batch was a small batch, but they will return soon. The cookies are pretty damned amazing (think heath bar chunk cookies, but with bacon goddamnit), and mixing them with thick, custard based coffee ice cream creates the richest shit you can put in your mouth besides Warren Buffet's penis. I win! Wait, or do we all win?

Maybe we should dip them in chocolate next?

The Return to the Life and Times

Don't be duped.

It seems that we often are waiting for the dust to settle—I'm starting to think that it is wiser to live as if you are the settling dust. Besides, isn't that the sparkly shit that is always suspended in some living room dissecting sunbeam? That's stuff's alright, so why not?

I'm out of the grocery biz and back in the Life. Only this go round I'm on the other side of the window, putting up the food instead of taking it away. Fruition. I'm having a good time back there, learning a lot, and generally taking it all in. Making a career switch near thirty seems risky, but if there was ever a time to do so, it is now.

After nearly five years of hard work from an entire community, we have opened the world's first cooperatively-owned and worker self-managed brew pub. I am on the kitchen team, and work with an awesome group of people with ranging experience and a common dedication to making Black Star successful. Our food is pretty damned good, and our beers are coming soon.

We are currently in our soft opening phase, as we are waiting for our house beers to be available before having a grand opening. I don't think it is technically possible to have a brew pub grand opening without the brew pub's beer. This phase been prolonged due to some minor construction issues, yet this extra time has been a good period of refinement for our kitchen team as we work out a few kinks on the menu.

Since we are a worker self-managed organization, we are completely lateral. There are no positions and the only titles are that of Brewer, and leads for each of our four teams: kitchen (back of the house), pub (front of the house), business (administration), and beer (beer production and selection). It's safe to say that no one has been in this type of work environment (partly because the combo didn't exist, and because working for the Man is the far more dominant paradigm), so we have been working with our established protocols as a base for making it up as we go along. It seems to be working fairly well thus far, and will continue as long as we make communication one of our primary focuses.

So far the hours have been long and the business good. We've done no advertising, yet still have a packed house on the weekends and steady service on the weeknights. We've been working towards presenting our first Irrational Menu (locally sourced, seasonal fare - specials from around here) and have a few special tasting/pairing meals in the works for Austin's First Annual Beer Week (this week).

Local, seasonal produce and proteins aren't only on Irrational Menu, they have a dominating presence on our Rational Menu as well. Other than stock items (potatoes, onions, celery, etc.), all of our produce is local and is rotating. We're right on the cusp of seasons, so we still have some summer hold outs like zucchini and yellow squash and cucumbers around, but are also seeing the slow creep of fall crops like yams, butternut squash, radishes and greens.

The only meat proteins (I say this because we have tofu) on the menu that aren't sourced from Texas are the Niman Ranch beef and bacon, which are of superior quality, and therefore exceptions were made. All of our uncured pork comes from Richardson Family Farms in Rockdale, and it is amazing. We source sustainable farm-raised redfish from Lone Star Aquafarms in Palacios and our shrimp are from the gulf. The chickens and the eggs are from Gonzales. We also occasionally mix in beef from Windy Bar Ranch for our burger blend and chili (broke down a chuck roll yesterday). Also featured are the delectable cured meats from Ben Runkle at Salt and Time. Yum.

Using products of this quality and sourcing is crucial to both our mission and my own peace of mind.

The ship has finally left the port and is on a course straight into the heart of the uncharted waters of cooperation. I'm feeling pretty good about it all. People are excited, and this is, after all, for the people. I've been delinquent in my blogging, yet wasn't inspired nor had the time to put any serious efforts into this. I still don't have the time, but the inspiration is there and I'll have to make the time. Thank you for your patience, as I hope I can produce something that will bring you, at best, moderate levels of entertainment.

Stay tuned.

The Darkness of Future Past

I tend to spend the first few days of a new year thinking back on the last—a practice I that developed over time as a tool for being a better person—and the experience leads the mind down many paths towards some ultimate goal that I may not have codified yet. I spend a little bit of time examining my successes and accomplishments, yet go to great lengths to really look into my failures, mistakes and poor decisions—it is this practice of introspective reflection that is the cornerstone of my personal growth.

Sometimes I get down on myself in the process, yet it is mostly a positive experience with each failure or mistake being an opportunity for potential growth or self actualization. I just can't feel badly about learning a lesson, even when I was really, really in the wrong.

In the kitchen in 2009 there were many successes, even a few accomplishments, yet there were failures both epic and minuscule in abundance. This is inevitable when you are taking risks and trying new techniques and combinations of flavors. Each food fail has pushed me forward to this point, an event horizon from which there is no turning back, and 2010 will usher in a new era of my culinary awakening. Consciousness and deliberate action must be the foundation for what will be achieved this year. Are we ready?

No NaNo

It's November and that means that NaNoWriMo is in full swing. I can imagine the entire legion of the makeshift novelists click-clacking away on their laptops, looking broody, brows furrowed, hands unsteady from drinking way too much caffeine, while watching their word-count plummet as their blood-pressure skyrockets. That's how it works though. You type a lot of crap and you write a novel in a month. Or at least 50,000 words of a novel.

I am not participating in NaNoWriMo this year, but plan on being back in action by next year. Last year's trip to London pretty much killed my chances last time around, but I still know the taste of victory from crossing that fifty "K" mark back in ought seven and it is kind of like when you find a morsel of bacon in your teeth later in the day—nostalgic and delicious. This is a very challenging competition to impose upon yourself, yet I suggest everyone try it at some point just for the hell of it. You occasionally will write something that will impress you later, but for the most part it feels like you are writing crap and desperately trying to carry a narrative. Good fun!

I recently landed a cookbook reviewer gig for ChefTalk.com. Should be neat. You can read my first review here.

Bold Moves

I've never even heard of Eater. Maybe that says something about me or how little I care for the foodienistas out there in the abyss, but I do find it to be a bold move to put a call out for bloggers to hang up their keyboards "in order to make way for stronger reporting of the food world."

Sure, not all blogs are created equal—I actually don't read more than a handful and haven't had the time to keep mine up and running over the past few months—but there is something disconcerting about a food related website asking bloggers to shut it down for a nominal fee. Poking around on this Eater website, I found the usual poorly written foodie crap that I personally don't care about or write about (who cares about Rocco DiSpirito's newest pitch on his long road to selling out?). So, this leaves me poised to ask why—why ask us to stop writing about our passion? Sounds wack.

I'll ramble about whatever mundane shit I want to motherfucker.

Food bloggers out there, don't do it. Resist the temptation of making a quick $25 bucks and don't stop writing about food. Food bloggers in Austin seem more apt to cover locally produced foods, locally owned restaurants and the scene than some shitty national website that thinks it has its finger on the pulse. This move is nothing new. Eater seems to have a lot of advertising dollars coming in from the Food Network and the like, folks who have turned eating into a sport and homogenized food trends and styles into neat little marketable packages with frosted blonde tips, like Guy Fieri. The idea that they will be releasing an 'Eater's Bill of Rights' today, and that it should be in any way taken serious, is a joke.

Keep writing and cooking and eating and loving food the way you want to, not the way the Big Foodie in the Sky tells you is cool. Fuck that shit.

Things Done Changed

Fear not, dear reader. We're still keeping it bearded and weird over here, just felt the need for a minor name change. I realized at one of those blogger events as I said aloud the former title of this blog that it was rather long and clunky to say. "The Life and Times of a Bearded Weirdo" doesn't even imply that this is a food blog, right? We don't plan on changing the variety of the content that gets posted here though—"As if you post any content. . ." You joke.

Seriously though, folks, things have been crazy busy around here. Work and food and work and food and work and beer and wine and food and work. You see how this goes. There has been more reading of words than writing going on, as well. So are the way of things. The way of the Force. Anywho, there are good things a coming (which, after all, is what you get for waiting oh-so-patiently).

Bacon and potatoes, bakin' in the Sun! Besos.

Intervention

It's true, I know. I'm an addict. I can't help it anymore. I'm sick. Not a day goes by where I don't think about using. In the morning. At work. After work. In the evening. I just can't stop. It's gone to far. I'm lost. It was just a recreational thing before I met her. She was already an addict. Together we just feed our addictions. I set her up in the morning with just enough to get her by until mid-day. She was already an addict. She was.  

I started using when I was just a boy. It was like those shitty anti-drug ads from my youth. I learned it from watching my father. Sometimes I would use his stuff; sometimes he even gave it to me. Just enough to start my day. Then I started using with my friends. We would skip class and go down to a local spot known for being cool. They always had good shit there. Generous amounts for a good price.
 

Of course, everyone knew what we had been doing when we showed up late to school. But none of us ever cared, and no one ever said anything. It wasn't that our behavior was condoned, yet it was clear that it wasn't condemned either. We were on our own anyway by then. We didn't have any parents. We were free to make our own choices and mistakes. We knew we were lost when were waking up early and phoning it in — making sure they had what we wanted and knowing just when to get there for it. What times we had then. Good times.

I started working at a restaurant, the Iguana Grill. It was really easy to score there. The cooks would hook you up if the management wasn't around. Just a little pick-me-up to help me get through my shift. Those were desperate times. My habit was making me unhealthy. I knew it. Nothing could be done. Still, I wasn't an addict then. I may have had a problem, but I could stop at anytime.

Moving to town from the lake only made it easier to find the stuff. It was really easy in town. Damn near every neighborhood had a place you could score. Especially on the South and East sides of town. They were practically giving it way. I thought I knew where to get the best shit, but some other addict was always there to show me where better shit was. They pointed me to discrete businesses with odd hours. Street corners and shopping strips. Bodegas and hole-in-the-walls. Meanwhile, I was learning how to make the shit at home. I was getting good at it too. Ask anyone. It'll put you on cloud nine.

Yesterday, I knew I had a problem. Yesterday, it hit me. Yesterday, I knew something had to be done. I was invited to a party where they were giving the shit away! They even had a few different kinds of varying intensity, from mellow to really intense. I may have been a little greedy (I mean, it was free). After that, Blackberry and I went out and used some more. Each time was good, but not as good as the first time. It’s never as good as the first time. 

Today, it's all I can think about, though. Where am I going to get it, how am I going to do it, when am I going to get it, what type will I get? Who has the best shit around here.? I'm down South where there are so many options. I can't blame her though; she was already an addict when I met her. She even told me I feed her habit. Oh what joy to see her smile as I cook the stuff for her.

One of these days it may get the best of me. What if I don't like it anymore? What if just doesn't do it for me anymore? What if I can't feel anything?

If it does get the best of me, then so be it. I guess I knew what I was getting into the whole time.

I just can't quit you.

Dear Reader

This has been an exceptionally busy month and my ability to set aside time to write has been near non-existent. I'm currently sitting in a greasy spoon in Burlingame, California, where I've just devoured a plate of biscuits and gravy and eggs and homefries. As a Southern boy I have a fondness for this very plate of food and must say that I was not let down by this West Coast interpretation. 

Thank you for your patience and your continued support of my journey through this deepening culinary abyss here at the Life and Times of a Bearded Weirdo. 

Hold the Mayo

After a perfect Saturday of tacos, walking around Lady Bird Lake, and hiking through the greenbelt, Blackberry Shortcake and I went to the Food Hole to get some provisions for a light meal. She had suggested artichokes, and being that artichokes are her favorite food, I was all for it. It feels good to serve someone their favorite food, and we had yet to have any artichokes in our meals together. 

I had a wild hare and decided to make mayonnaise from scratch. For the first time. I was using the recipe from Fergus Henderson's The Whole Beast. It failed; I became frustrated. The instructions in the book–though whimsically written–just weren't that clear. I felt like the young kid in the obligatory scene in those old movies where he finds out that his hero, the Champ, or star quarterback was a fraud, or doper: "Say it ain't so, Champ, say it ain't so?"

I thought maybe it was the immersion blender generating too much heat, so I tried an ice bath and a whisk to cool down the oil. Nothing. Just a big messy bowl of olive oil and egg yolk snot. I gave up. We enjoyed the artichokes, cheese, and charcuterie nonetheless. Those things really are amazing, and I am intrigued about who first thought it was a good idea to eat the spiky things, and how many people suffered from the choke before figuring out to remove it. I mean, really? 

It was just the day before that by chance, on a lovely South Austin walk, that the Shortcake and I had stumbled upon two bolted artichoke plants. The plants were huge, unwieldy looking things. Having gone to bolt, the artichokes that remained on the plants shot skyward on long stalks, standing erect like proud phalluses in the afternoon shade.  The Shortcake was excited to see the very plant on which her favorite food grew (if we could just find that damned elusive taco tree, we'd be set), we had been talking about them shortly before coming across these fine specimens, which made the discovery somewhat surreal. Whoa. I love when things like that randomly happen. It feels like things are synching up; destiny unfolding. 

I slept on the failure of the mayonnaise. I woke up way later than I ever would on a Sunday. I ate, had some coffee. There was work to be done in the garden and I was intent on knocking it out. After finishing my greenthumbery, I sat and relaxed a bit. I started thinking about the failed mayo, just sitting in my fridge. It taunted me like a beating heart beneath the wood flooring. It was getting to me. I cleaned the whisk and bowl and set out to beat this shit into submission. Nothing. Still nothing. 

The information age is good for many things. I sought out a use for this spent mess. Perhaps there was a custard, or bread that needed over two cups of olive oil and three egg yolks. After a few videos I realized where the mayo failed in the first place. I never let the emulsion happen with just the egg and mustard. That is what suspends the fat. Ah ha! There it was. An answer, a hypothetical answer, but an answer all the same. Start over with one yolk, some mustard, and some salt, form the emulsion, then very slowly add the failure. The website said, "I heard if you... but I've never tried it." I've tried it. It worked. 

Miraculously, the one egg yolk held all of the failed mayo. Now I have over twenty ounces of mayonnaise and a sore forearm. Understanding the origins of my failure shed light on the recipe itself, and knowing now the technique needed, it makes sense in its whim. I also have the feeling of satisfaction that comes from the tenacity to overcome adversity through deliberate and dedicated action. 

Of course this was resuscitating mayonnaise, not climbing out of a canyon after cutting off my own arm, but I was really going to be bummed if I had to pour out all that spensive olive oil, and fancy egg yolks. After all, we are in a recession, right? Wasting that much food seems rather bourgeois to this ignorant pleb. And just like that kid in the old movie, I was vindicated; my hero, despite his transgressions, came through in the end. The curtains close, the lights come up, goodnight.  

Gilded Recession pt. 4

When laughing in the face of starving millions while eating and drinking like Bacchus, it's only a matter of time until you pay the piper. I thought it would be the food police. I figured they were on to me. There was no doubt in my mind. The sad reality was that my financial state had hit critical condition. I had been having cash woes since before I flew off into the sunrise to see Phish. That weekend only exacerbated the problem. Chicken and waffles and scotch be damned. 

Decadence and depravity are to blame. I was in the hole. Leonard Cohen, bard and sage he may be, is also to blame. As is my landlord, the entire Phish organization, butter, and the byproduct of yeast and sugar. And the Dali Lama. The conspiracy runs to the top. 

People came in town. We had some drinks. Put it on my tab. We go to the thing. Parking sucks, the free whiskey sucks; the music is good. We go to parkside. I eat marrow, and raw meat. Bearded weirdos come out to revel, feast. Cheese plates and bloody marys. I fall asleep on the couch, my guests go on without me.  

Fail. 

Echo and the Bunnymen

Deceit lies at every turn.

Rillette please.

What a fluke.

Tata.

See ya tamarrow.

To make up for the economic woes and fees, we go to UCHI. For some reason everyone has gift cards, making it near impossible to give away our spare. The food is good, but doesn't live up to the hype. This has more to do with the hype than the food. The food was really good. Very high quality fish. I feel like I can't go ten feet without hearing someone mentioning Mr. Cole. He deserves some accolades, yet he slowly approaching Bob Schneider-dom. This clouds judgements. 

Me so hungry.

Maters. Panko. Green. 

End over endo.

What angry villagers use to accost those who have transgressed upon them.

There is redemption, even solace in a plate of food that costs less than three fidy a person. Thanks to staff discounts, free boxes and pantries, you made the day. What better way to fill the gap of time between poetry reading identical twins and hillbillies with animatronic-animal-rock-band-fetishes than a home cooked meal wrought with care?

Seared butterfish and blood orange gastrique with kale and herbed quinoa.

$7 for a meal for two.

Back on top, I remember the view. I find the bar, order a drink. Oh, and I'll take a white for Tyson.

My Friend Fuligo

It was not unlike the feeling you get when reuniting with a close friend. I was surprised to see him. It had been a while; I'd nearly forgotten his face. He looked good, strong. He seem to be happy to see me too. The bad thing is he is a nuisance, harmless, but a nuisance nonetheless. He often overstays his welcome; tends to pop back up in my life at the wrong moment. He's somewhat unavoidable. Once you meet him, he's in your life forever. He seems to disappear from time to time, but you know he's around, waiting to resurface. Sometimes, he looks really bad, like dog vomit; others he looks as fresh and appealing as a warm pile of scrambled eggs. It's a shame he is such a lowlife. Slimy bastard. Dirt dweller. Well, I guess he's back. My friend. My friend Fuligo. 

In some ways it's like he never left.

Musings on a Sunny Day

I wonder how many political or social contracts have been discussed, negotiated, and decided upon as heads of state, tribal leaders, or warlords dined. What were these meals that they ate? Could something as intricate and impacting as say, the Yalta Conference, be worked out over caviar and creme fraiche, and borsch? Was post World War II Europe subdivided while Stalin sipped Ukrainian spirits as Churchill took tea? 

Food plays a wide variety of roles in events of these kinds. At some events it may be the grand focus; others it may be merely on the table to give your hands something to do as you anxiously sit waiting for it all to end. We have all been there. I'd prefer to think that conquering peoples would throw a lavish feast for their newly acquired citizens; a celebration of the merging of their respective cultures, even if it wasn't consensual. Then again, this event would be far less exciting than a barrage of artillery, or the surprise decades later discovery of a forgotten, yet well placed, land mine. Probably why it is not in practice today. 

Throughout my life I have met a variety of people over dinner. I've even negotiated business deals, evaluated employees, bargained for love, and thought up brand new business models while enjoying a light snack, or a well prepared portion of fish and chips. I've been responsible for introducing kindred spirits over meals, people who have been friends for years; others who were doomed to repeat mistakes made in their pasts. I've had the pleasure of being introduced to some special folks as well, some who are well loved, and some who are life inspiring. Food seems to be a constant through it all, a character actor who's abilities to adapt are impeccable and delicious. 

Hoity Toity

I'm not much on the SXSW tip. I don't mind big crowds or anything, just don't usually participate too much. I usually attend a few films, or really special music events, yet generally avoid the scenester, overly hipster douchebag wrought environs of downtown during this week. This year I have something to look forward to that appeals to both my passions and my palate.

 

I would like to meet more food bloggers, and form an army of gourmands to eat this town out of house and home. This seems like a good first step, right?

Woe Is Me

If you are a regular reader of the Bearded Weirdo you may have noticed that the quality of photographs have recently diminished. As you may recall, I dropped my phone into a bowl of butternut squash soup a few months back causing some lens issues. I did some modifications of my own, removed the lens cover–which may have been dumb–and cleaned the inner workings of the lens housing. Despite my efforts, a strange, foggy, haze has developed around the perimeter of most photographs. Sad face. 

Those of y'all who do something similar to this whole food blogging thing may have suggestions for a nice camera in the $200 to $300 range. I would like to hear them. I found a few for cheap on Amazon.com, but I like reviews from real people as well. If you have a suggestion please leave it in the ol' comment area, and life will continue as usual. That is all. 

New Month, New Horizons

This blog fell off a bit last month. I was able to salvage its reputation with at least one good story before it shrunk away into the ether. March is here, and with it comes a myriad of adventures, and activities.

This coming weekend, Cory and I will be traveling to Hampton, Virginia, to see three Phish shows. The first three in five years. This experience should be interesting. I'm looking forward to eating some nice seafood while on the East Coast, and will blog about that, no doubt. The opening of the long awaited film adaptation of Watchmen also happens that weekend, which is something that me and my nerdy friends have been looking forward to for quite some time.

My father's birthday is in a few weeks. He will be older. I'll probably have to hang out with him, or something obligatory like that. Fuck it, if I do it now, maybe I won't have to later on down the line when he needs to be fed, and changed. Remember our agreement, Old Man! Also, we'll be moving parts of our operation into the new addition at work, which will bring much change, and excitement.

March means SXSW here in Austin. Another year for Lewis Black to rake in cash, and bring all the hipsters out of their stylistic caves so they can compete for most ironic shirt, and best rendition of the obligatory Sid Barrett hair cut. Will the prize go to New York or L.A. this year? Last year's tight jeans and white belt champion will be on hand to judge the "Who Looks Like They Want to be Here the Least" competition at the Mohawk, sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon. Soon these clowns will realize that it is us who want them here the least.

April is looking bright, too. I was able to score six tickets to see Leonard Cohen at the Long Center. F'n sweet!!! The Flight of Conchords will be here in May, and Avenue Q is coming, which I hear is offensive, depraved, crude, and lewd. Sounds like something I'd love.

Mostly, I'm excited about the seasons changing, and getting out in garden. My winter garden has been subjected recently to some violation of the rodent persuasion, ultimately resulting in some necessary fence mending, and bed building. Those rat bastards. Spring and early summer veggies are some of my favorite. Life is beautiful, and so are you.

Patience and the Art of Procrastination

This year has been a very busy one thus far for your venerable Flapjacks, dear reader. His work has him thinking into the future, yet life has him reeling in the ether of the present. In constant motion the future is. Difficult to see. Back-logged blog posts nip at his heels like irritating little dogs, and time that could be spent typing has been squandered on social activities, reading, working; mostly drinking. It's all productive however, so do not get angry with him, just be patient. He has endured much worse. Inspiration is found in the most peculiar places. Stay tuned.

Repost 101

My dear friend, and colleague, the genuinely enigmatic Professor Conti, has posted yet another brilliant entry on his blog. You need to read this. Why? Because it's good for you. Conti's prose is deliciously elegant, like a nice panna cotta, and consistently informative. Far better than the trite nonsense you'll get here at the Bearded Weirdo. Read it. Love it. Live it. 

Tons of food posts coming this weekend, promise. If you're good, you may even get a few new recipes. Cheers. 

Editing

I love to write. At one point in time, I was set on being a Journalist. This never happened, for several reasons, and I'm content being a Green Grocer at a natural food cooperative for the time being. Despite it not being the focus of my career, I still get to do some writing, and enjoy that I have an audience of about ten thousand people (in theory, who knows how many actually read the newsletter) that receive my work in their mailboxes several times a year. 

I noticed after re-reading the Koeppel interview for the nth time, that there are many typos, word omissions, and grammatical errors throughout. Most people don't notice, or care about these things, which I know, but, I care. I rushed getting that to our Editor, and I feel that it shows in the grammar. Transcribing is tough work. It took me about four, maybe five, hours to transcribe a thirty-five minute interview. I finished the piece when I was in London, and I definitely did not check it as thoroughly as I would have liked, which is something that I'll have to work on, but our Editor didn't edit it either. 

This blog is written a particular tone, and is kept informal, and casual for a reason. I read blogs that feature really solid writing, and some that are just great. I aspire to hit the right balance of tone and style someday with my writing. Bringing your life to life for others enjoyment, and entertainment is fun, and I feel that it is a great vehicle for keeping a record. However, I want to not post errors on here, or, have errors published. Now, I just feel like I messed up the Koeppel interview because of all the typos and what not, but know that the content is solid. 

Long story short, I want to make sure that when something gets out into the world, that was written by me, that it is properly edited, and corrected. I guess we'll have to see how that works. 

Koeppel Interview Part 7

Back in early October, I had the opportunity to interview Dan Koeppel, author of Banana: The Fate of the Fruit that Changed Our World. This is the final installment of this series, but if you want to read the piece in its entirety, it is available in both the print, and online versions of the current Wheatsville Breeze.

Do you have anything you would like to say to consumers, like the owners of our cooperative about the fate of this fruit that changed the world?

I would like stay to the owners of the cooperative, is that, it is not your fault that you only about one banana. For a hundred years the definition of the word banana has been this banana that we eat called the Cavendish. But there are a thousand other amazing bananas out there. The banana supply chain has been has been constructed so that the only ban that we can get is this banana that we eat. This ban is threatened now, and it an opportunity for us to either lose bananas entirely, or to open ourselves up to this amazing world of bananas. I’m not even exaggerating when by saying that the Cavendish is the white bread of bananas. And in a co-op like yours, people know what white bread is, and it’s not so good.

Foodies, members of co-ops, and people who have the opportunity to control their food destiny a little bit more than the average consumer, you have the opportunity to save the banana for asking for more types of bananas. It’s not just a matter of going to your co-op produce managers, or co-op boards and saying find us more bananas. It’s a matter of actually learning about these other bananas your selves and going a little bit deeper than that. Figuring out where these bananas come form and trying to learn way to get them to the United States.

You’ll here from the banana companies that it’s impossible to get more kinds of bananas into the U.S., and you really do only see one kind. But this is an opportunity, really. This is really a chance. There is a business opportunity here. There is going to be a replacement banana and the question is, who’s gonna bring it. The banana is the most popular fruit in the United States. More bananas are sold than apples and oranges combined. The Cavendish banana is going to go away, we’re almost certain of that. It’s going to take ten, or twenty, or thirty years, but it's going to happen. Who’s gonna introduce those new bananas? Who’s gonna get rich from doing that. Who ever is going to do it going to have to find new ways to ship it, invent new technologies, new supply chains. They’re also going to have and opportunity to make those supply chains, more fair, more equitable more environmentally sound. It’s a big job, but somebody can do it.

Right now, the big banana companies don’t know that the job is ahead of them. They don’t know how to do it, they don’t want to do it, and they don’t understand that they need to do it. So what I would say to the members of Wheatsville Food Co-op and members of food co-op everywhere, and anybody who is out there, and is looking for a business opportunity, or who wants to help change world, well, millions of millions of dollars, and millions and millions of people, and millions and millions of opportunities are out there. The banana is waiting. It’s waiting for somebody to say, “Let’s take this, and let’s change it, and bring more bananas to the American public.” This is a chance.

Right now as the banana exists it doesn’t look all that good for the Cavendish. But it doesn’t look bad for the banana unless things stay the same. And like I said, the real opportunity is that Chiquita and Dole, right now, are pretty much walking around with blinders. That doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t keep our eyes open, and can’t do anything.

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Koeppel Interview Part 6

Back in early October, I had the opportunity to interview Dan Koeppel, author of Banana: The Fate of the Fruit that Changed Our World. Over the next few days, I'll be posting the interview in digestible chunks, but if you want to read the piece in its entirety, it is available in both the print, and online versions of the current Wheatsville Breeze.

Can you briefly discuss the politics of the banana industry and banana pricing?

One thing that is really important to understand, is that, the banana was unheard of up until about one hundred and twenty five years ago. When you look at bananas, you have to ask yourself, “Why are bananas so cheap?” This is a fruit that comes from at least two thousand miles away from just about anyone in the United States, maybe a thousand. It has to be shipped under refrigeration. It’s highly perishable. A banana last no more than fourteen days once it’s been cut from the tree, yet it costs significantly less than apples, which are grown one hundred to two hundred miles from most American super markets.

Now when the banana companies came to be, this was there strategy. They needed to make bananas cheap in order to beat apples. To do this they had to be brutal. They basically had to control their costs so radically, that they had to take over countries and enslave people. To make this fruit the number one fruit in the United States, at such cheap prices, they had to do terrible things.

For most of their history, starting in around 1890, and going up though the ‘50’s, and even to a large extent, today, banana companies had to cut a bloody path through Central, and South America. Using the U.S. military, banana companies overthrew governments in that region over twenty times. This what lead to the term Banana Republic, these were countries that were controlled by banana companies.

If any of your readers want to know more, they could look in my book, or they could look at any number of dozens of other books, but some of them might actually remember reading Gabriel García Márquez’s, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and in that book banana workers are massacred in a fictional town in Colombia, after coming out of church during a strike and the year is 1929. After they’re massacred, they and their families, their bodies are thrown into the sea. Well, this actual 1929 massacre really did occur, in Colombia, in the town of Santa Marta.

This massacre was ordered directly by a company called United Fruit against striking banana workers. United Fruit is today known as Chiquita, and it was just one of many massacres that was ordered. So, the history of bananas, and the history of banana pricing is a bloody and terrible one. It’s really important for people to remember, when they think about bananas that there are costs and benefits, and to remember that the banana industry invented globalization, as we know it. And that those issues still reverberate today, and are still important.

When we think about bananas as a product that may be disappearing, and when we think about adding new bananas to the market, and making bananas fairer by adding bananas that might cost more and that might benefit workers more, that we’re also thinking about ways that we might be reversing over a century of unfairness to banana workers who are being forced to work on a crop that is still very much a commodity, and that are still very much sold at prices that don’t allow a lot of help and health to the people that pick them.