Part 5 (1/2)

'Same thing', she countered, before turning to a hidden colleague in the kitchen. 'We got the G.o.dd.a.m.n Queen of England out here.'

Slightly shaken by this interesting approach to customer care, I ordered quickly. 'A Red Hot ... with everything.' I had no idea what a Red Hot might possibly be, but I wanted to get the experience over with.

'That's $5.40, big ears.' She extended a chubby paw in my direction.

I handed over $10 and waited for my change. Instead, she put it in a large jar marked 'IT'S FOR THE TIPS b.i.t.c.h' and glared at me.

'That OK with you, big ears?'

'Yes, Ma'am', I whimpered and stood to one side to wait for my hot dog like a good little boy. It is all shtick, of course, but that only matters if the hot dog is no good. I need not have worried. It was a great hot dog and worth all the abuse and the 90 per cent service charge extracted from me for the pleasure. Perhaps I am just funny that way and just like being abused.

If that hot dog was good, the next proved to be one of my most memorable tastes of the whole trip to date.

I was lucky in Chicago to have contact with Adam, the poor chap who had shared a room with me as I travelled around j.a.pan and who had seen me parading in little else but a variety of short silk robes. He lived close to my hotel and joined me for a number of meals. While he was working, he put me in the charge of his girlfriend, Saritha, who seemed happy to wander around with me as I looked for things to eat. I did what any gallant chaperon would do when accompanied by an attractive young woman. I made her Walk with me through one of the rougher parts of town in search of another hot dog, in this case at the legendary Hot Doug's.

When I did my research. Hot Doug's was the name that came up most regularly. A little bit more research showed that Doug ^as a bit of an old punk rocker and had named some of his offerings after the members of my favourite band of all time' Buzzc.o.c.ks. It was obviously kismet.

When we arrived, Doug himself was seated behind the co ter and, as the line shortened, I took in the menu. The Sh.e.l.ley was a temptation until I realized it was a vegetar option. I just couldn't do it. Saritha, however, was a vegetarij which probably explains the whining when she realized we ^ going to a hot dog joint for lunch. I went for a standard Fr with everything, some fries and a diet c.o.ke, and we took a! in the cheerful little dining-room and waited.

Three minutes later our food arrived. On one of their wij dows they had hung a sign that, to paraphrase, said that there i few things better in this world than an encased meat sandv They are not wrong. This was fabulous stuff as the skin of t dog popped to let the meat inside escape in a waft of meaty stean I ate quickly, too quickly, which led to lots of hot-dog-scenb burps for the next few hours. I approved of this, considering! the gift that keeps on giving. Saritha did not and made 'eie noises after each regular expulsion.

I had only a limited amount of time in Chicago, as I squeezing in a couple of days between Kansas and another invit tion in Ann Arbor. So I did not really have time to explore i bewildering variety of food Chicago has to offer. I did not eve have time to visit one of Chicago's legendary steakhouses.

I could tell you about the other restaurants I visited, aboij Avec, where the service was so charmless you would thought they had brought Hillary Clinton in to give lessons, ar about the West Town Tavern, where they did things to a plat of crisps that must be illegal in at least thirty states. But what. really want to tell you about was a hot dog, a simple sandwic which made me begin to form a small, unimportant theory my own about what makes America such an amazing place eat. For that alone, I am glad I went to Chicago.

Oh, I did have 'a burrito as big as your head' before I left to Well, you are forced to, aren't you?

Ann Arbor: The Cult of Zingerman's.

Gauri Thergaonkar is another of those people unfortunate enough to have made my acquaintance via a food website and is a long-time resident of Ann Arbor, Michigan. As soon as she heard about Eat My Globe, she extended an invitation for me to spend time with her.

A campus town for the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor is fdled with bright, young idealists still waiting for life to come and beat the living c.r.a.p out of them and with lots and lots of coffee shops for them to sit around in while waiting for that to happen. It may seem strange to cut short a visit to Chicago, one of the great eating cities in the country, to head up to Ann Arbor, but I was going for one reason only: to visit Zingerman's.

Zingerman's styles itself as a Jewish deli, and in fact the name is a composite put together by the founders to make it sound the part. However, to call Zingerman's a deli is like calling Fortnum & Mason's a corner shop. It is an extraordinary collective of food-related businesses in orbit around the main store, which all pride themselves on the superlative quality of their products and their levels of customer service. Alongside the deli there is a creamery, a bake house, a vast mail-order business and a number of restaurants.

Founded by Ari Weinzweig and Paul Saginaw in 1982, Zingerman's has rapidly built up a reputation nationwide, not only for the quality of its food but also for levels of service, which border on the pathological.

When I first met Gauri she was, Hke so many people Michigan, working for one of the major car companies was her obsession, and she found herself spending so muchi and money in Zingerman's that she decided to have a total ca change and take a job as a line worker in the deli. Over the few years her enthusiasm and ability saw her rise to become of their managers and, because of her own big career s.h.i.+ft understood completely when I told her about Eat My Globe. [ sent me a supportive mail and at the bottom wrote, 'I'll organiz for you to hang out at the deli'.

This alarmed me slightly. The enigmatic leaders.h.i.+p and i agement style of Zingerman's engenders a loyalty among its i tomers and, even more, its staff that is almost cult-like. Ga however, is used to getting her own way, and on a Sat.u.r.day! mid-October I found myself reporting for duty.

Gauri had decided that the best way for me to understand t deli would be to undergo one of the trial s.h.i.+fts they give pc tial employees to see how they interact with staff and custi ers alike. I would hang out in each section of the store ar the general reports at the next staff meeting were positive, would tell me whether, if I had been eligible, they would employed me.

My s.h.i.+ft began at 8 a.m., but before that Gauri had arrang for me to meet Ari Weinzweig in the Zingerman's coffee sh so I could get some background about the company. As alwa he had arrived as soon as they opened and was sitting with 1 a dozen cups of their different coffees in front of him, doing tasting. 'So what do you want to know about Zingerman's?''. said, slurping on a rich, dark brew.

'Well, how do you get your staff to drink the Kool-aid?'; asked in a slightly clumsy reference to the Jonestown Ma.s.sac Ari looked up and gave me a thin smile. I was obviously not i first to make the comparison.

'Well, you'll just have to ask them when you are workir today', he replied. 'All we try and do is find people who ar d to achieving the same vision that Paul and I have for

''^^mp^^y future. Some can fit in, and others can't.'

tl*^ ''”gxplained how Zingerman's runs an open-book finance ^so that every employee is able to view the accounts, and policY'^^^^^ policies, official and unofficial, that they use to sup-^'””^their staff, from help with sometimes serious personal issues ^”promotions on merit and a definite recognition of individual bilities. He also explained about 'preferred futuring', a vision creation method they had used from the very beginning of the business. For a hugely cynical Brit like myself, it was all a bit hard to believe, but, as I spent more time with Ari and the staff of the company, I could see it was genuine.

As I found out when I went to take up my position behind the counter, the level of staff loyalty is incredibly high, as is the level of service - not just to the customers, who were already flooding through the doors, but also to each other and to me, the odd, middle-aged man who had been dumped in their midst and who they made feel immediately welcome.

Jess Piskor, who was looking after the cheese and meat counter, where I was to spend the next couple of hours, explained: 'It is the double whammy. It's homecoming, and U of M have a game today.' I didn't understand a word of that, but I gathered from the crowds, even at this early hour, that it was a big deal.

The staff” were swamped. One of them handed me a plate of Montgomery's cheddar and told me to head out into the store and hand out samples. 'Give it your best British s.h.i.+t', he ordered.

One of the few benefits of being British is the accent, which, particularly in America, can help you get away with anything. I played the card to the full, wandering around for the next eight hours giving it my 'best British s.h.i.+t', trying on a range of accents from the 'Cor luv a dnck' faux c.o.c.kney of Jamie Oliver to the plummy tones of David Niven.

I moved from the cheese counter to the bread counter to the dry goods area, where I sold, as the Americans might say, like a ^o'Fo. I persuaded people to buy $50 bottles of vinegar, loaves of bread stuffed with chocolate (admittedly that did not so much work) and enough British cheese to keep the industry going for another year or so.

At 4 p.m., during a lull, Gauri came onto the sales floor. 'Wk look shattered', she said. It was true; I was knackered. I caiu^ a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I was covered from head t<^m in=”” flour=”” (note=”” to=”” self,=”” black=”” is=”” not=”” a=”” good=”” colour=”” when=”” worki^=”” with=”” bread),=”” and=”” my=”” face=”” was=”” lined=”” where=”” beads=”” of=”” sweat=”” had=”” attractively=”” cut=”” tracks=”” through=”” the=”” caked-on=””>

Gauri was clutching a package. Inside was a black Zingerma^ T-s.h.i.+rt, my reward for helping out. 'You deserve it', she sai^ giving me a hug, and she was right. But it made me realize he much effort went in to giving the levels of service Ari demand and how much I had enjoyed being part of it. I was a convert.

Now, where's that Kool-aid?

15.

Don't Mess with Texas.

I can understand why Texas gets a bad rap. It does precious little to ingratiate itself with the rest of the USA, and you get the impression that signs reading 'Don't Mess with Texas' studded alongside the freeways are not just talking about litter. It is a warning not to get on the wrong side of anybody in a state where it is easier to buy a gun than an apple.

I spent two weeks in 2002 driving around this vast state with TGS in search of amazing barbecue. He, of course, had done his research and had a large map of the state with the word 'MEAT' scribbled on it at places of bovine interest. We both came under Texas's spell and thought we might never leave when we drove into a gas station outside Tyler called Billy Bob's, which sported a large sign announcing it sold only three things: 'Gas, Cracklin' & Ammo'. Ever since, TGS has been known suddenly to giggle quietly and mutter 'gas, cracklin' & ammo' to no one in particular.

I had pretty much the same barbecue intentions this time as on my previous visit, but I was resigned to the fact that I was going to have to make the journey alone. This was a double shame because there are few people who are better company when in search of meat than TGS and obviously, having only one stomach, there was only so much I was going to be able to take on. Fortunately, the food websites came to the rescue again and, via mutual friends, I was put in touch with two locals, Jane and John King.

On my last visit I had fallen in love with Austin. I hked its quirkiness and the laid-back vibe, which meant that everything happened at its own steady pace. I liked its independence and* demand on its inhabitants to 'Keep Austin Weird'.

Five years later there were signs that chains were taking, from the independent shops, but the old Austin spirit still seen to be intact, particularly at the utterly fabulous Austin with its sign, a middle fmger extended to 'The Man' and declaration that it was 'So Close Yet So Far Out'.

After an unmemorable lunch and a short walk to see the shah t.i.tty bars and dreadful restaurants of infamous Sixth Street, I' ready for a nap and returned to my hotel room, only to receive,

j call from my new chum Jane, arranging to take me to her he for a Tex-Mex feast she and other members of the food web were arranging in my honour. When we arrived, her husban John, was busy unloading beer from his car into the porch.

Dressed in shorts, a grey T-s.h.i.+rt over his rounded stomach: a straw Stetson worn without a hint of irony, John was al impossible to dislike. This impression was reinforced when handed me the first of far too many shots of tequila with words 'Welcome to Texas'.

I knew almost nothing about Tex-Mex cookery. My expe ences of it in London have always verged on the disgusting, al I a.s.sumed that it was basically just an excuse to use up residu amounts of any bad cheese that you might find in the back i the fridge. It is certainly meat- and cheese-dependent, and th is no way you would ever call it a refined cuisine, but on evidence of what was put in front of me, it is entirely deliciot 'Armadillo eggs' were particularly good, made of jalape peppers stuffed with cheese and wrapped in bacon. I shovel] down about six of them before I realized that everyone else in ( porch was staring at me with a look mixing horror, disgust; nausea in equal measure. I moved quickly on to chilli con ques a dip made with ground beef and yet more cheese. I did not giv the Kings a chance to tell me not to stand on ceremony as I stoc right by the table with all the food on it and helped myself unti they began to stare again. These were just the starters, and soon huge dish of enchiladas stuffed with pulled pork and a large * ”Tgf beans appeared. Jane produced a pico de gallo in a vain ttempt to keep things on the healthy side, but it was too late, -pbe enchiladas were so good it was all they could do to stop me strippmg off and smearing the sauce over my chest.

After making a pig of myself I flopped down on a pretty pink rocking chair and helped myself to yet another shot of tequila. There is a saying that 'Texas is just a state of mind'. Well, I was in a h.e.l.l of a state, and no one seemed to mind.

I spent the next day with Jane as she went about her day at work in Central Market, one of the best food shops I have visited in a long time, and we spent the evening cooking Indian food together for more of her family and friends. After supper, as I flopped back into the same rocking chair on their porch, John came and sat on the couch next to me. 'When do you plan to go and eat barbecue?' he asked. 'Tomorrow, my last day before heading to New Orleans', I replied, fighting back a dahl-flavoured burp.