Quintessence, and Pretzel Makings
In California, a good soft pretzel is hard to find.
Now I know what you're going to say. And I counter that no, Aunt Annie's (or Pretzeltime, or any of those other mall "pretzel" establishments) will just not cut it. Going to a mall pretzel store to satisfy the craving for a soft pretzel is like going to Taco Bell to satisfy the craving for Mexican food.
And just so we're on the same page, I'm talking about the craving for a dense, chewy slightly-stiff-on-the-outside soft pretzel that you can get from almost any street cart in NYC, or (per Geof, since I've not been since I was a pre-teen) Philadelphia. The kind you buy for $2.50, shake half the salt off, cover in a line of packet mustard, and savor while strolling along 6th Avenue or through Central Park, or while relaxing by the fountain in Washington Square on a muggy summer day. (No, I don't have any specific pleasant associations with pretzels in New York ... why do you ask?)
The topic came up Thursday evening at the office in part because I'd just found out that my littlest sister was spending the weekend in NYC (lucky bitch), which of course triggered the usual reminisces, and in part because Geof himself had been hankering for a pretzel for the past two days and spent a considerable amount of time trying to explain this fixation to others in the newsroom. (They didn't understand, being for the most part born-and-bred Californians.) The result of the conversation was a Plan to just screw the rest of the state and their mediocre pretzels, and make the damn things ourselves.
Geof found a recipe on the internet for a good Philly-style pretzel dough, and by the time I arrived at his place Friday evening, it was just ready to rise. Two hours of stretching and rolling and attempts at artistic twisting later, we had the results:
They don't only look good, but they tasted good, too. (More pictures at the Flickr stream, of course.) Obviously, we should open up our own East Coast-style pretzel stand. They weren't perfect, of course (that'll come with practice), but they certainly did satisfy the craving. Fuck you, Aunt Annie's. Fuck you.
Now I know what you're going to say. And I counter that no, Aunt Annie's (or Pretzeltime, or any of those other mall "pretzel" establishments) will just not cut it. Going to a mall pretzel store to satisfy the craving for a soft pretzel is like going to Taco Bell to satisfy the craving for Mexican food.
And just so we're on the same page, I'm talking about the craving for a dense, chewy slightly-stiff-on-the-outside soft pretzel that you can get from almost any street cart in NYC, or (per Geof, since I've not been since I was a pre-teen) Philadelphia. The kind you buy for $2.50, shake half the salt off, cover in a line of packet mustard, and savor while strolling along 6th Avenue or through Central Park, or while relaxing by the fountain in Washington Square on a muggy summer day. (No, I don't have any specific pleasant associations with pretzels in New York ... why do you ask?)
The topic came up Thursday evening at the office in part because I'd just found out that my littlest sister was spending the weekend in NYC (lucky bitch), which of course triggered the usual reminisces, and in part because Geof himself had been hankering for a pretzel for the past two days and spent a considerable amount of time trying to explain this fixation to others in the newsroom. (They didn't understand, being for the most part born-and-bred Californians.) The result of the conversation was a Plan to just screw the rest of the state and their mediocre pretzels, and make the damn things ourselves.
Geof found a recipe on the internet for a good Philly-style pretzel dough, and by the time I arrived at his place Friday evening, it was just ready to rise. Two hours of stretching and rolling and attempts at artistic twisting later, we had the results:
They don't only look good, but they tasted good, too. (More pictures at the Flickr stream, of course.) Obviously, we should open up our own East Coast-style pretzel stand. They weren't perfect, of course (that'll come with practice), but they certainly did satisfy the craving. Fuck you, Aunt Annie's. Fuck you.