How the Hot Dog Found Its Bun (4 page)

W. K. would eventually go to work for his brother, which was a pretty humiliating endeavor. W. K. made a paltry six dollars a week at the Sanitarium, never earning more than eighty-seven dollars a month during his twenty-five years on the job. He apparently wasn’t allowed to go on vacation until he’d worked there for seven years. His responsibilities ranged from balancing the books and running the organization’s mail-order business to shining his brother’s shoes and giving him shaves.

Thankfully for W. K., fate intervened in an unexpected way. A Seventh-day Adventist, Dr. John Harvey Kellogg had religious convictions that required him to focus intently on producing food that was good for the body. At the heart of many of the Sanitarium’s creations were grains. This even included trying to produce a grain alternative to coffee. Among the other efforts was a more digestible substitute for basic bread. It was during this process that W. K. got his big break.

In 1894 the pair was experimenting with boiling wheat dough. During the process they were called away. When they came back, the dough had dried out. Nevertheless, they put the stale stuff through rollers with the hopes it would still be transformed into a long flat sheet of dough. Instead, the result was a bevy of small wheat flakes. The Sanitarium’s patients loved the invention, which they called
Granose
.

W. K. saw a chance to make his mark. Dr. Kellogg wasn’t as enthused. The doctor wouldn’t even give his brother space for a proper factory to develop the discovery. Still, the resourceful W. K. was able to produce and sell 113,400 pounds of the cereal in 1896. With a little more tinkering, the brothers found replacing wheat with corn as the basis for the flakes offered an even tastier option. Called
Sanitas Toasted Corn Flakes
, the new cereal continued to do the business.

It was time for W. K. to move out of his brother’s shadow—though he did it with some trepidation. W. K. waited until Dr. Kellogg went on an extended trip to Europe and built a proper factory in 1900. The elder Kellogg wasn’t happy upon his return, insisting that W. K. reimburse him $50,000 in construction costs.

The big rift finally came during another one of Dr. Kellogg’s trips to Europe. (For all his education, the good doctor clearly didn’t realize these trips weren’t such a good idea.) W. K. decided that the only way to expand the market for his corn flakes was to add sugar. For Dr. Kellogg, this was sacrilegious. Sugar was one of the ingredients that served to undermine good health. W. K. insisted and set up his own business, Battle Creek Toasted Corn Flake Company, in 1906. While the pair would remain in business together for some time, squabbling over the product led to lawsuits. In the end the less-educated, but ever scrappy W. K. would win the primary right to use the Kellogg name commercially. By this time W. K. had redubbed his cereal
Kellogg’s Corn Flakes
in order to differentiate it in a marketplace full of competitors.

Nachos: Ravenous army wives

Picture a group of typical nacho eaters. You’d probably imagine sports-obsessed men at a bar wearing replica jerseys with the names of their favorite players sewn on the back. Of course there would also be a pitcher of beer on the table. Surprisingly, the first people to enjoy this popular cheese-laden tortilla chip appetizer were far from that image. The original plate of nachos was prepared for a group of proper military officers’ wives who were probably more accustomed to a snack of petite sandwiches and tea.

It all happened in 1943 in Piedras Negras, Mexico. The border town was across the Rio Grande River from Eagle Pass, Texas, which during World War II was home to Eagle Pass Army Airfield. For the married women on this US Army Air Force base, crossing the border to shop and enjoy the Mexican culture was a popular diversion.

One day a gaggle of the ladies moseyed over to a Piedras Negras restaurant called the Victory Club. The establishment’s maitre d’—Ignacio “Nacho” Anaya—was there to greet them, but he had a big problem: He couldn’t locate the cook. Not wanting to turn away the patrons, he put on his chef’s hat. He looked around the kitchen and threw together what he had, which according to
The Oxford Companion to American Food and Drink
“consisted of neat canapes of tortilla chips, cheese, and jalapeno peppers.” In a dash of irony, Anaya’s son would tell the
San Antonio Express-News
in 2002 that the cheese his father used that day was from Wisconsin. He also said that tostados were used to make the first chips. In the years that followed Anaya became the restaurant’s head chef—after all, how could you
not
give that job to the man who created nachos? The dish took on Anaya’s nickname and was advertised as “Nacho Specials” on both sides of the border.

The combo of chips and melted cheese spread rapidly. By the 1960s it was a popular component of Tex-Mex cuisine. But its place as a global phenomenon owes some tribute to a man named Frank Liberto, who turned nachos into stadium food. In 1977 Liberto unveiled a new nacho concession at Arlington Stadium, home of baseball’s Texas Rangers at the time. Because real cheese didn’t have a great shelf life (and melting it would require an oven or broiler), Liberto devised a fast food form of Anaya’s masterpiece that was part cheese and part secret ingredients. The new sauce didn’t need to be heated and, when it came to shelf life, it could likely survive a nuclear blast. Its formula was so hush hush that a twenty-nine-year-old man was arrested in 1983 for trying to buy trade secrets divulging Liberto’s formula.

When famed Monday Night Football announcer Howard Cosell tasted Liberto’s variation on the nacho theme in 1977, he began talking about it incessantly on air, increasing sales. As for Anaya, his son tried to help him trademark the nacho name years after it became a phenomenon but had no luck. Anaya would go on to run his own restaurant, but he never made big money off his crowd-pleasing creation.

Tapas: Fruit flies

Tapas are such a part of the Spanish lifestyle that there’s a word to describe the culture built up around them—
tapeo
. As essayist Alicia Rios explained: “The art of
tapeo
. . . induces states of inspiration and delight, it gives rise to witty banter on trivial topics and the interchange of snippets of juicy gossip.” If you happen upon any plaza in Spain on a leisurely afternoon, you’re sure to find people enjoying some good wine with plates of the finger food (often featuring such popular local fare as chorizo, Serrano ham, and olives).

Over the year, one of the “trivial topics” that has undoubtedly been debated over tapas is how this tradition first came into being.

One popular legend dates back to the thirteenth century. King Alfonso X of Castile had become ill. As part of his convalescence his doctors insisted that he show restraint when it came to his appetite. He was given small portions to eat with his wine. (Apparently wine was a good tonic for getting well.) Once the monarch recovered he liked the custom so much he required taverns under his dominion to offer small plates of food with wine.

While this story sounds wonderfully regal, the actual origin probably has more practical everyday roots. In this explanation, the arid southern region of Andalusia is the birthplace of tapas. The area is known for its sherry, a must-have aperitif for visiting travelers. Unfortunately for tourists and locals alike, the strong, sweet wine not only attracted drinkers but also insects. Fruit flies would hover around open glasses or, even worse, end up in the alcohol. In addition, the dry conditions meant that dust and dirt could sometimes whip up in a breeze and settle in the glass.

The simple solution was to cover the top of the glass when not drinking. This would prevent the pesky bugs from delving into the drink. Some disagreement exists over what was initially chosen as a cover. The
Joy of Cooking
, which places tapas’ modern invention in the nineteenth century, says that tavern owners started off putting bread on the glass—others say that a piece of ham typically served as the barrier. According to domestic maven Martha Stewart, small plates were placed over glasses.

Although this practice began as a protective measure, smart business owners realized that it could also be an inducement. “It became customary for the bar owners to offer a sampling of food on the dish to attract customers, and each bar prepared their house specialty, trying to outdo the competition,” Stewart wrote. Supporting this story is the etymology of the word
tapas
. Stemming from the word
tapar
(“to cover”) the word is typically translated to mean “lid” or “cover.”

Nowadays, every region of Spain has its own specialties for tapas lovers. In Castile there is
montados de lomo
(marinated pork loin and bread) or
morcilla
(a fried black pudding sausage dish). If you go to Galicia you’ll find finely prepared octopus or shellfish. Deciding on the best tapas will surely lead to a debate of its own . . . over a bottle of wine and some tapas.

Wheaties: Messy cooking

The Breakfast of Champions was once gruel for the infirm and out-of-shape. A Minneapolis health clinician named Mennen Minniberg was mixing up a batch of hot bran one day in 1921 when some of the stuff dripped out of the vat and onto the stove. The scorching surface went to work on the gruel and the result was a handful of crispy flakes.

Minniberg thought they might have some commercial prospects and headed over to a local flour business called Washburn Crosby Company, which would later become General Mills. The executives at Washburn liked the idea and gave Minniberg use of a laboratory to turn his findings into a marketable commodity. Unfortunately, he failed. The flakes proved far too flakey, grinding down to dust when bagged up for sale.

Wheaties’ official website acknowledges a health worker bringing his accidental discovery to the company’s attention, but doesn’t give his name (whether it be Mr. Minniberg or someone else; some have claimed the man’s last name was actually Minnenrode). The company also doesn’t confirm he was given a shot at turning his unintentional invention into something more.

Nevertheless, everybody agrees on who turned the clinician’s blunder into a breakfast wonder. It was a first-class miller named George Cormack. Educated in Scotland, he’d run mills in Canada and throughout the United States. When presented with bran flakes that couldn’t hold up when packaged, he labored tirelessly on an alternative. He came up with thirty-six varieties before settling on just the right formula. A key change: replacing bran with wheat.

The company called the cereal Washburn’s Gold Medal Wheat Flakes, rolling it out in 1924. The product wasn’t immediately a top seller. Apparently a flashy name didn’t entice the masses. Acknowledging the problem, the company asked employees and their families to come up with an alternative title. Though Nutties was considered, they settled on Wheaties. For ultra-trivia geeks, Jane Bausman, the wife of the company’s export manager, submitted the winning entry.

Success kicked in when they started advertising. The Breakfast of Champions slogan was introduced on an outfield billboard at a minor league baseball stadium, and athletes started appearing on packaging in 1934. Lou Gehrig was the first. At the 1939 Major League All-Star Game, forty-six of the event’s fifty-one players endorsed the cereal. Countless more ballplayers and other athletes offered testimonials over the years about how they adored the wheat flakes. Despite their love for on-field legends, Wheaties initially put these sporting heroes’ images on the back of the boxes. It wasn’t until 1958, starting with Olympic decathlete Bob Richards, that athletes’ pictures started adorning the front.

With the exception of a brief flirtation with kids’ radio programming in the early 1950s, General Mills has held tight to Wheaties’ athletic focus. So much so that when Ohio’s congressional delegation once lobbied the cereal makers to put former astronaut and US senator John Glenn on a box, they were rebuffed. After the September 11, 2001, attacks, Hillary Rodham Clinton wrote the company’s president urging him to recognize a New York City police officer and firefighter on a box along with a Port Authority officer. Again, the company passed.

Needless to say, don’t expect the faces of George Cormack or Mr. Minniberg on a box anytime soon.