Photograph by Michael Amsler

Chain Gang

A walkabout through the forbidden pleasures of the Outback Steakhouse

By Sara Bir

The directions to just about any Outback Steakhouse in the country might be similar: just past the Circuit City, to the right of Best Buy, behind the Cinema Googolplex, crowning the top of a hill like a gigantic, abandoned shoe box. Peckish for protein and too indecisive to agree on an actual neighborhood restaurant, two friends and I had landed at Outback by default; in a lackluster antithesis of Mallory’s majestic compulsion to scale Mt. Everest, we chose Outback “because it’s there.”

For some, taking a meal without luxurious necessities like freshly ground pepper and extra virgin olive oil feels dreadfully wrong, as wrong as neglecting to wear pants to work or not buckling your seat belt. This is one of the marks of a true gourmet–the type of person who frowns on salt that does not originate, unrefined, from the sea. Gourmets are not likely to admit that they have, once or twice, tested their refined palate at a franchised restaurant. Even less likely is an admission that they liked it. Perhaps even crave it.

Iodized table salt does have its time and place. The snowy grains attain perfection when sprinkled profusely over a glistening mound of golden-brown French fries poking their pointy heads through the top of a grease-spattered cardboard sleeve, yearning for ketchup to bless their starchy crowns. French fries whose crisp, salty-sweetness is to be tempered with alternating sips via plastic straw of fizzy kiddie-mead that manages to cleanse the palate and still maintain its definitive saccharine character. This is the beauty of a chain restaurant. This is its worth.

I know it’s wrong; I’ve read Fast Food Nation. But I only enter those cookie-cutter refueling centers to satisfy unidentified biannual cravings. It seems petty–even downright irresponsible–to stuff money into a national chain’s advertising budget by munching on trucked-in, genetically altered fries rather than supporting dedicated local chefs who are on their feet over 12 hours a day trying to keep their organic bistros open. Perhaps this is why some chefs have a notorious weakness for fast food, because it represents the complete opposite of everything they stand for, making it a forbidden thrill to enjoy something that, at its core, we all know is evil.

These are corporations who put Olympic-committee-level amounts of planning into reconfigured crouton distribution proposals or the launch of the Exploding Cran-Razzamatazz Volcano™ mixed drink; even so, some are better at it than others. Despite differences in price and quality, there are few distinctions between fast-food and sit-down franchises. You step through their glassy doors and enter a suspended reality, an edible Disneyland, another dimension where location is not a singular instance, but a universal shopping mall. A chain is a chain, freaky and possibly rewarding, but still freaky.

The Belly of the Beast

The fumes of meat over Outback’s industrial indoor “barbie” (what our antipodal counterparts call a grill) overtake us before we even get through the door. The host sends us off to wait for a table with an industrial-strength pager and we sit, staring with glazed eyes at a television tuned to ESPN amidst random boomerangs and mounted faux mini-marlins dotting the walls.

A fat man sits alone with his Outback pager, taking up the whole bench as he waits for his table. Already seated and digging into their salads (one part shredded cheddar and jack cheeses to one part lettuce) are others of his bulk. Here, in the comfortable darkness and calculated din under mass-produced neon beer signs, the spacious booths are spread apart like picnic tables at an indoor campground, and a hard-working person can be a glutton with sanctioned anonymity.

Which is just what we were planning to do.

Once we’re seated, the host shuffles us over to our booth as ’80s new-wave favorites play over the speakers. Our waiter appears in a red polo shirt and black pants–the generic uniform of all wait staff at casual eateries–and deals out logo-emblazoned paper coasters. “HimynameisJosh, I’llbeyour-servertonight. Our specials are potato soup and our fish tonight is a mahi-mahi. Wouldyoulikeanythingtogetyoustarted?”

Glutton Guilt: These are a few of our favorite things.

How about 22 ounces of beer? These tankards are an Outback trademark, enough to get anyone started and then some. To create a perception of value, Outback and its chain-linked ilk make portions impressively (and inedibly) huge–you begin by eating food because it feels good, but you end by eating food until it hurts–creating a bizarre parallel between the dining habits of ancient Roman aristocracy and modern patrons at Hometown Buffet. This effortless access to prolific second and third helpings shifts the emphasis of dinner out as respite to dinner out as recreation, making the experience a leisure activity with an unfortunately high impact on the body.

Australian for Food, Mate

The typical American identifies the following things with Australia: “Crocodile” Dundee, The Crocodile Hunter, INXS, koala bears, and fat beer cans. Australians basically eat like we do, only in a different accent, so to construct a whole empire of Australian steakhouses, Outback had to fictionalize and miniaturize an entire continent to distinguish themselves from the John Wayne aura of other interchangeable midprice steakhouses. Outback Steakhouse has taken advantage of our blank Aussie impression to create an alter-Australia, as defined by their menu: Grill everything on the “barbie” and punctuate every description with an exclamation point. The menu items are Australian only in the vernacular used in naming them–“The Ab-original Bloomin’ Onion,” “Walkabout Soups of the Day”–thus making this an Australian-themed restaurant rather than an Australian restaurant. No Vegemite sandwiches or Anzac biscuits or lamb to be found anywhere at the Outback, though the wine list has a respectable selection of affordable Australian wines.

Oddly enough, it’s the gimmicks–mascots, special drinks, sombreros for birthday celebrations–and not the food itself that differentiate one chain from the next. The Hard Rock Cafe and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. both offer caesar salads, but one establishment has Axl Rose’s leather codpiece on display while the other has a replica of the Nikes Tom Hanks wore in the movie.

Josh returns and squats down at the head of our table, awaiting in serf position to take our order. I don’t know which CEO first brainstormed this maneuver, but it spread like wildfire throughout casual, sit-down chains across the country. I think it’s vile. I wanted to say, “Josh, I respect you. Please get off your knees and take my order like a human being, because right now what you are doing makes me feel that you are about to give us all a blow job.” Customers at most of these places earn their money by figuratively getting on their knees for someone, so the whole idea must be for the diner to feel empowered, in control, and therefore more likely to spend money. I tell the now waist-level Josh that I would like a Bonzer Salad, thank you, and that is all.

The Bonzer Salad promises your typical chicken breast sliced over your typical greens, tossed with an Asian dressing and a “special crunch.” Special crunch? Last time I had a special crunch it was inside a Nestlé chocolate bar. But I feel daring. My friends select “Land Rovers,” aka steaks.

And they are good steaks; I try pieces of both, since they each rival a teenage boy’s basketball shoe in size. Outback prepares steaks by first dipping them in clarified butter, then seasoning, and then giving them the barbie treatment. This they are indeed doing correctly: Generous amounts of fat and salt make meat tast-ee. When cooking at home, bringing yourself to give food big, wet French kisses of butter instead of tiny, dry pecks with Canola oil can be cringe-inducing. Let someone else surround your food with yummy fat and sodium behind closed doors; it’s easier to accept, and the palate-pleasing result is one that keeps people going out to eat.

Not all restaurants stress the importance of generous seasoning to their kitchen staffs, but you can bet a franchise will. And if not, it’s only because the food comes half-prepared–portioned, seasoned, and flash-frozen–thereby eliminating the chance for human error . . . and the opportunity for culinary creativity.

My Bonzer Salad is a satisfying treat, a less challenging version of the sort of thing that would have shown up on the menu of a trendy late-’80s fusion restaurant. The chicken is moist and thinly sliced, and the salad arrives doused with the perfect amount of a flavor-packed dressing, dominated by sesame oil and undercut with the sweetness of honey. Prior to digging in, I scrutinize my salad for signs of special crunch, though I can identify no such thing . . . until I spy a semi-intact curl of a Frito chip. A-ha! This is the executive stroke of genius–that a corporate kitchen will take lunch box snack food and secretly scatter it through your $9 salad.

I try some of the blue cheese dressing–my dining companion swore it was good–only to discover the stuff is nothing but blue cheese crumbles and mayonnaise. Everyone likes blue cheese crumbles and mayonnaise, so of course a dressing mixing the two and nothing else will be a big hit. Outback’s menu takes maximum advantage of the fact that any salad, appetizer, or entrée that can be reasonably laced with bacon, cheddar and jack cheeses, or sour cream will be. The Aussie cheese fries are gilded with the aforementioned two cheeses and bacon, plus ranch dressing on the side. Just what is the flavor profile they are shooting for here? Why not toss in a packet of lard and some popcorn topping for good measure?

The Temple of My Familiar

But even though my outer food snob turns its nose up at crossing shrimp with ranch dressing, my outer food whore is more than happy to wolf down the small, doughy loaves of bread that keep appearing at our table. The steaks are cooked to their requested doneness, Josh provides us with prompt and cordial service, and all of the food is well-seasoned.

This is the one steadfastly good thing about chain restaurants: The food will always be seasoned correctly. A chain’s existence relies on its consistency, for if an Outback in West Virginia did not offer an identical experience to an Outback in California, then customers would be faced with a dreadful, gnawing uncertainty. For a finicky crowd’s spectrum of demands, generic menus and ample parking make chain restaurants the lowest common denominator for overworked parents and fussy kids. Afloat in familiar brand names, favorite upbeat pop songs, easy-to-navigate paths to the bathroom, and a moderate din that diffuses any need for deep conversation, we can bond instantly with recognizable food that plunges us, headfirst, into the fleeting deep-fried therapy of a spa of gluttony.

We pay our bill; the price of my Outback salad rivals that of a salad at a fine-dining restaurant. You cannot, however, enjoy fine dining without thinking, and the only thing I had to think about at Outback was how to chew my food and swallow it, and how pleasing the Men at Work song playing in the background sounded. Chain restaurants do the thinking for us, which can be a real treat . . . sometimes. The problem is that there are a lot of people who are habitually choosing not to think.

Often, the determining factor that makes a restaurant a favorite restaurant is not that the food is spectacular or the service outstanding, but simply because being there feels right. Slipping into the overblown comfort factor that franchised restaurants try so damned hard to create is, for some, an escape, while for others it is an act of subjecting yourself to an eerie Twilight Zone of eating out. Where does the novelty stop and the brainwashing start? I don’t know, but if I wait another five years before I venture into an Outback Steakhouse, I am sure I will enjoy my salad.

From the April 25-May 1, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Glutton Guilt

Sara Bir

The following nationally available meal items are my own particular favorites:

McDonald’s Hamburgers. I enjoy these, perhaps two or three times a year, in moments of sheer weakness and/or desperation. A McDonald’s hamburger has its own unique, nonhamburger-like taste, making it a thing entirely unto itself. Cheese, I find, disrupts the delicate medley of flavor; it is also 10 cents more.

Anything from a Dairy Queen. DQ used to be a must-have for any two-bit, population-50 boondocks town, and their ensuing expansion has drained the quaint, everytown feel of the joint. Dennis the Menace is still on the paper cups, however, and Peanut Buster Parfaits still taste divine until you get to the last third of it and find yourself needing to puke. This area of California is tragically lacking in DQs, and while Foster’s Freeze can pinch-hit, it is no substitute.

Burger King’s Whoppers. These do taste like hamburgers, thanks to a little novelty called Flame Broiling™. I find Burger King to be of little use for anything else.

Breakfast from Nation’s Giant Hamburgers. Nation’s, a small, California-only franchise with no North Bay representation yet, splices together elements of fast food, Denny’s-style diners, and high-school cafeterias. You walk up to the counter, order from the limited but entirely serviceable menu, and wait until your number is called and your food arrives, made-to-order. As the name implies, the burgers at Nation’s are giant–but, breakfast being my favorite meal, why bother with those when pancakes and eggs are available 24 hours a day? Nation’s breakfasts are also giant: the Giant Three-Egger, the Giant Two-Egger, and the Jr. Giant (that would be a one-egger). These plates come with about half a loaf of toasted bread, a kilo of semisoggy hash browns, and a side of bacon, or its ham or sausage equivalent in volume.

Nation’s boasts two highly desirable qualities in eateries (tastiness of food nonwithstanding): Everything is cheap and the atmosphere is conducive to lingering. Though hardly the intimate town hangout, Nation’s has booths aplenty from which to gawk at the ethnically and economically diverse Nation’s clientele. Under bright fluorescent lighting, a steady parade of cell-phone-toting businessmen, teeneaged homies, Sunday churchgoers fresh from the service, and badly dressed indie rock nerds like me devour our giant portions, gloating at the immense value (high in calorie, low in cost) of our meals.

Nation’s also serves pies, which are proudly displayed in two lit glass cases that flank the counter. Nation’s pies are flavorless and without character, but the mere merit of them being pie is enough to win a fraction of my favor; Nation’s pie will do in a pie emergency. A standard piece of nation’s pie is one quarter of a pie. Even given my earthshattering love of pie, I cannot manage to put back the Giant Three-Egger and chase it with half of half a pie, a popular Sunday morning brunch habit of select Nation’s customers.

Lyon’s of California’s pie. Lyon’s, like Denny’s, is overpriced and shitty. Denny’s seems to be outperforming Lyon’s in terms of customer attendance, giving nighttime at Lyon’s a voyeuristic, postapocalyptic feel. Serving pie superior to Nation’s, Lyon’s butter-flavored, vegetable-shortening-layered crust delivers a flaky and acceptably toothsome treat. The fruit-filled pies are gummed up with an abundance of modified starch thickener that outweighs the shriveled berries or day-glo cherries, but when topped with artificially flavored vanilla ice cream, the glop is by then so thick that it makes no difference at all. I like to go to Lyon’s when I want to be out of the house and ignored–which is just what Lyon’s wait staff will do to you.

The scoop of bright yellow cornmeal pudding stuff that comes with entrées at Chevys. It’s thicker than polenta and pastier than the masa filling in tamales and way sweeter than both–almost a dessert, but not quite. Anyone who has eaten this stuff knows what I am talking about, and they know it is good.

From the April 25-May 1, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Spearhead This

Asparagus offers all this and purple rubber bands too

By Sara Bir

The moment that asparagus fans have been waiting for all year has arrived. It’s asparagus season now, and the little green bundles of joy plummet in price from $3.99 a pound to “buy one, get one free.” Get it while it’s hot, because when asparagus comes around, you gotta eat it up.

Distinctive, versatile, and luxurious, asparagus holds a treasured spot worldwide. Americans favor thinner stalks of green asparagus, whereas it is the thicker, white asparagus of southern Germany that many Europeans treasure. Ancient Romans coveted asparagus, serving it with a pungent sauce of fermented fish. In China, asparagus spears are candied and served as special treats.

California leads the nation’s asparagus production with more than 50,000 metric tons harvested annually. Although it is available year-round, asparagus tastes best during its natural growing season: late March through June. Since asparagus begins to lose its flavor as soon as it’s picked, it’s important to buy the freshest spears you can find (local, if possible). Look for firm, smooth stalks and closed tips when buying, and take a peek at the cut ends of the stem: The drier they are, the more time has passed since they were picked. If you’re going to keep asparagus around for a few days before cooking it, store the bunch in the refrigerator, upright in a few inches of water, just like flowers.

There’s no consensus on what the best type of asparagus is–thick or thin, green, white, or purple; it sort of depends on the purpose. White asparagus, a subtly earthy delicacy, is grown under mounds of dirt to prevent its exposure to light, a labor-intensive process that creates a less grassy, slightly bitter flavor. Purple asparagus looks exotic, but–alas!–turns green when cooked.

Thinner, pencil-sized stalks are more tender and don’t need to be peeled. Their dainty size makes them ideal for a crudité platter, slaw, or salad; if the asparagus is especially sweet, you can even serve it raw.

Thicker spears have a tough skin that may need to be peeled from the bottom end to just under the tip; a heavy-duty vegetable peeler is perfect for this task. Even though it requires extra work, thicker asparagus is found by some to have more flavor and a more succulent texture.

Thick or thin, the lower third of the stalk is tough and woody, and needs to be removed. Some just take the bunch and cut straight through, but you can snap the bottom of the stalk off, which will naturally break right at the woody part. And save the bottoms, which are excellent for stock. You can also infuse canned stock with asparagus tips if you are making risotto.

You don’t want to cook asparagus al dente, but you also don’t want to boil it to a limp, slimy mess. When you can easily insert a knife into the thickest part of the stalk, it’s done. My favorite method is pan-steaming, a fast and effortless way to cook a pound of spears (perfect for omelets or a small dinner). Simply lay the prepared raw asparagus in a skillet and add about a quarter inch of water. Cook over high heat; if it looks like most of the water has evaporated, add a little more. After five minutes or so, it’s done, and you don’t have to wait for any water to boil.

Another easy way to steam asparagus is to stand the whole bunch–tied with kitchen twine, if you want to be tidy about it–upright in an inch or two of salted, boiling water in a large saucepan, and cover. If you boil or pan-steam asparagus for a pasta, reserve some of the flavorful cooking water and add it to your sauce.

Asparagus stands up to bold flavors and rich sauces, so it’s great as an element in more complex dishes–stir-fries, savory bread puddings, sandwiches, omelets, and even curries–but for a simple treat, all it needs is a quick dressing. A squirt of lemon, a dip in bagna cauda, a drizzle with sesame oil, or a kiss of browned butter will make asparagus’ flavor shine. In England, thick asparagus is served as its own course, often with hollandaise.

One thing asparagus does not go well with is wine; a member of the lily family (along with onions and leeks), its sulfur compounds make wine taste bitter. This has never deterred me from indulging, to be honest, but just make sure that you don’t waste a good Chablis by serving it with asparagus. If you insist on pouring wine, stick to a light Sauvignon Blanc or a Riesling.

Or, you can put the asparagus in the drink: At the upcoming Stockton Asparagus Festival (April 26-28), a (hopefully small) percentage of the 20,000 pounds of asparagus served will go into aspara-ritas, yet another twist on the classic margarita–which is, even for the versatile asparagus, a stretch. Luckily, you need not resort to putting it in mixed drinks: Asparagus is perhaps best when cooked simply and eaten with your fingers, just as the Romans did.

Now, for that distinctive after-dinner smell: Eighty percent of the population will develop an odor in their urine after eating asparagus. The majority cannot metabolize aspartic acid, a natural chemical that creates the odor, so it goes straight through our system, making our urine stink. Another theory has it that only certain people have a gene for smelling the pungent chemicals, while others believe that the gene for producing the chemical in the first place is the missing link. In any case, you’re the only one who has to know if asparagus makes your pee smell or not, so what difference does it make? Eat, eat!

Roasted Asparagus with Parmesan, Olives, and Lemon

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Trim and peel a pound of asparagus; place in a roasting pan and drizzle with a scant tablespoon of olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and the zest of half a lemon; toss and roast, turning asparagus every few minutes. When the asparagus is almost ready but not quite done (10-20 minutes, depending on thickness of the stalks), scatter with 4 or 5 pitted, slivered black olives and enough shaved parmesan cheese to suit your taste. Continue roasting until cheese just starts to brown, and serve.

From the April 25-May 1, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.