“Comfort food” — kind of like “authentic” or “indigenous” – is a term which, though perhaps poorly defined, is nonetheless in widespread usage.
I thought it might be fun to get some sense of what the phrase “comfort food” really means. So for the past six months or so, I’ve been writing a series for Newcity about comfort food. The series is called “Comfort Me.” Here are a few recent pieces based on conversations with chefs about their own personal comfort food:
- Tom Van Lente of Two: http://resto.newcity.com/2014/06/30/com … t-and-bar/
- Nicole Pedersen of Found: http://resto.newcity.com/2014/05/13/com … -of-found/
- Mary Nguyen Aregoni of Saigon Sisters: http://resto.newcity.com/2014/04/15/comfort-me-mary-nguyen-aregoni-of-saigon-sisters/
For each installment, I chatted with a Chicago chef and had him or her answer a few questions like, “How do you define comfort food?” and “What’s your personal comfort food?”
The answers to these questions are many times revealingly personal, causing people to reflect on early childhood experiences that have elevated some foods to the level of being unusually comforting.
When I started the Newcity series, I began with a theory that comfort food would likely be something to eat that’s high in fat and calories, soft and non-aggressively seasoned. The paradigm of comfort food, by this definition, would be macaroni and cheese (not a comfort food of mine, but probably a comfort food for many).
As it turns out, comfort food is quite predictably determined by culture (few Asians for instance, would likely list anything containing cheese as a comfort food — possible, but unlikely), and there’s even a lot of variation among North Americans.
Though there may be some universals, comfort food is almost by definition idiosyncratic; there’s a lot of variation in what people consider comfort food to be because everyone has had a different life.
When I think of comfort food, one food comes to mind: hamburger. When I’m in an airport, stressed by the security gauntlets, hassled by my fellow travelers, usually just a little nervous about making connections, there’s only one thing I want: griddled beef on a bun.
I’m not actually sure why this is, but when there’s tension in the air, I’ve found that the way to relieve that stress is to sink my teeth into a big burger. There’s something very involving about holding a warm meal in both hands, enjoying big mouthfuls of meat and onions and catsup. A hamburger sandwich is usually soft, non-aggressively seasoned, and easy to eat.
For me, the burger doesn’t have to be fancy. In Chicago airports, after passing through TSA and other checkpoints, I’m quite satisfied to settle into a Burger King hamburger, which outside of an airport I almost never eat – I even prefer it to the much better, tastier, more crafted meals at, say, Rick Bayless’ Tortas Frontera. I’ve flown out of the Cancun airport several times in the past few years, and while I’m waiting for my return flight home, it’s always Johnny Rocket’s. It’s the only thing I want to eat. I’m drawn to it like a mom to a van or a hipster to plaid.
Most of the time, after a heavy workout, the only thing I want is, yes, a burger from Five Guys.
For me, this simple meal is comforting, which is why whenever I’m admitted to a cardiac ward, I make a point of ordering a hamburger.
If you’re so inclined, I’d be very interested to hear how you define comfort food and about your personal comfort food.
