Cookbook Stories from the Road by A. M. Symes
Here follows the final audio recording known to have been made by missing person Rosy “Rosita” Palacio, a podcast food influencer missing since last month. The recording gives insight into Ms. Palacio’s final known location. Despite not being formally named in the audio, local law enforcement believes the town in reference to be in northern Wisconsin, somewhere along Lake Superior’s south side. Ms. Palacio has not been seen or heard from since this recording was uploaded to her podcast.
Hello and welcome to Cookbook Stories from the Road! This is yours truly, Rosy Rosita, and thank you so much for listening to my podcast. You all are wonderful, my dears, for making me the number one New England foodie podcast as I travel across the USA in search of the finest of foods.
This week is super special. I mean, every week is special with me, am I right? Ha ha ha, but this week I’m coming to you not from my typical upscale restaurant within one of our many metropolitan cities, but from a small town in Wisconsin. This town is so small, in fact, that it was not listed on any of my maps beyond highlighting an intersection of two county roads near a cemetery. Seriously, Google Maps wouldn’t even take me here, I had to actually read a paper map!
I’m sure you’re asking why I have taken my Cookbook Stories so far off my typical road search and the answer is a rumor. Yes, a rumor. A rumor of the most amazing cheese my tastebuds will ever delight in. Naturally I scoffed when one of my adoring fans sent me an email, contesting last week’s story of the best cheese west of NYC coming from a delightful creamery in Oregon. I wrote back to the emailer and explained they had no business telling me—ME!—what is to be classified as good food. But the fan insisted I alter my route home to upstate New York and stop in this Town-So-Small-It-Doesn’t-Have-A-Name, Wisconsin.
Curiosity and pride led me to this diner, my dears. Curiosity about a town with no name and a diner with no name, and pride at being told what I should know.
I drove the open road back across these Great Plains, turned north in rural Minnesota, and popped across the state line by following the crudely drawn map from this so called “cheese master” who beckoned me, I found myself at an intersection shared with a cemetery, an abandoned school house, an empty lot, and a diner one could only fantasize came from the mind of some old horror writer from, like, the 90’s.
I retrieved the fan’s email which, along with the map, contained a recipe for Burrata cheese, and headed inside the diner that was easily three times as old as I am. I left my jacket behind despite the chilly temperatures. This diner’s decrepit disposition did not instill great confidence that I could keep the greasy smell from its leather.
So, I’m going to share the recipe with you now, my dears, because you’ll hopefully notice an amusing typo in the list of ingredients. Or maybe it isn’t a typo, who knows what these small-town folks—wait, make that No Name Town folks—put in their food.
Burrata Cheese - No Name Diner
2 1⁄2 lbs. mozzarella curd, diced small
1 1⁄2 cups heavy cream
1 cup ricotta
1/3 cup whey
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
5 quarts water
1 tablespoon arsenic
1⁄2 cup kosher salt
Finish this sentence: “If you’re going to eat cheese, you have to eat ____.” Tough, right? But if you’re looking for a signature cheese experience, a tantalizing experience, if you’re looking for an ecstasy that will make even a pallet as refined as mine quiver with delight, then look for Burrata cheese. Once you become enamored with Burrata cheese, there’s no going back. You’ll be wrapped up in the stories of fromagers, and begin to identify with them like you would a lover in silken sheets.
The unique process from which Burrata is created is what made me eager to cruise through this diner’s vat of pasteurized dairy and whey. For those uncultured in the art of cheese, Burrata is *kisses fingers* divine. Mozzarella, diced into petite squares. Heavy cream, whipped. Ricotta, crumbled and slightly dry. These ingredients are stretched, pressed, diced, mixed, heated, and iced to create a cheese worthy of its artisan heritage.
In the diner that, like the town, doesn’t have a name, I shared a long counter with two old timers and a waitress who looked as if she was born to work in a haunted house. A much older woman ran the kitchen, watching me through the ordering window, and I couldn’t help but feel like she was not welcoming to all. Small towns typically have this disposition towards me I have found. They are intimidated by my presence. When I asked where everyone was from, the older of the old timers smirked and pointed to the cemetery across the street.
As I said, small towns don’t appreciate me.
When the waitress refilled the men’s coffees, they both ordered Burrata and fresh bread.
When it was clear the waitress wasn’t going to serve me, I interrupted her chattering with the old timers and told her I was also there for the Burrata. Then I asked her to explain to me why the Burrata is supposedly so magnificent at her little diner.
After rudely laughing at me, the younger of the old times responded that he and his comrades always spend their day “back with the air suckers” enjoying the best food on Earth. You heard me right, he said “back with the air suckers.” Not cryptic at all! But don’t worry, I’m not easily deterred from getting the answers I want.
“But why not order mozzarella sticks or cheese curds, something more in-tune with your Wisconsin heritage?” I persisted. “Why Burrata?”
The man shrugged and sipped his Foldgers coffee and told me, “It’s just better.”
His friend simply nodded in agreement.
I told the waitress I wanted the same. I explained I had driven hours out of my way at the behest of an adoring fan so I could taste this supposed delicious cheese. She actually rolled her eyes at me before barking my order through the order window!
The old woman behind the kitchen window popped her head out and smiled at me. Well, not so much as smiled but stretched her lips across her teeth in an attempt to imitate a smile.
I took out the copy of the Burrata recipe. The waitress snatched the paper away from me and before I could react, she handed it to the old woman. The old woman checked the paper, and revealed a brow so furrowed and nose so wrinkled, you’d think I had confessed to being a fan of Velveeta cheese.
“You want this Burrata? I make you this Burrata,” she said before disappearing into the bowels of the kitchen.
After three Johnny Cash songs finished playing on the jukebox, a plate slid in front of me. A blob of white sat in the center of an Elvis plate and ten disk-cut pieces of fresh bread surrounded it. Seriously, someone needs to tell these people Elvis is dead and they should buy dinnerware not from Goodwill.
“I want to repatronize you,” the old woman yelled from the kitchen.
“Whatever does that mean?” I called back, but she gave no answer.
The old timers laughed and told me to eat up.
My senses were offended on so many levels up to this point, but fear not, listeners, this story has a happy ending. Despite the smell of grease, despite the plastic chairs, despite Elvis twerking at me from the ancient plastic plate, and despite the plastic silverware…the cheese. Oh. My. God. You don’t have to be from Wisconsin to appreciate cheese. But with the first bite, I couldn’t help but think something so scrumptious as this Burrata was being wasted on such unsophisticated townies. When I removed the asphodel leaves and cut through the thin pasta filata curd shell, buttery and creamy panna, containing scraps of mozzarella, oozed out. The flavor was decadent and bold. The texture: lip-smacking. I’m partial to enjoying Burrata with prosciutto, fresh tomatoes with olive oil, and with spaghetti, but none were offered to me. I doubt this diner has heard of olive oil; they seem more like the industrial sized canola oil type.
There was a slight tingling sensation on my lips as I slurped up the juices, but I assumed this was leftover soap residue on Elvis from an ancient dishwasher I figured the diner used. That aside, and despite my years of formidable training, I almost admitted aloud to the folks that this was in fact the best cheese to ever dance across my pallet. But their disdain and clear looks of mockery make me hold my tongue, if not to keep it wrapped around the succulent dairy godliness in my mouth for a moment longer.
Interrupting my orgasmic experience with the cheese, the older of the old-timers said my tagline. “Finish this sentence: If you’re going to eat cheese, you have to eat ____.” Finally! They were admitting they knew who I was.
With a mouthful of drops of Heaven, I replied, “The answer is No Name Wisconsin Diner Burrata.”
Yes, while absolutely rare, I can admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong about the best cheese being from Oregon. The best cheese is, annoyingly, from Wisconsin. I hummed the entire time, savoring the bursting flavors as they slid through my mouth.
All things being equal, I prefer to enjoy my fresh bread and cheese without the twisting sensation that leaves my stomach in tight cramps moments after finishing my meal. It’s a side effect of the Midwest well water, I am sure. The old cook, who confessed to being the writer who shared her special Burrata recipe, assured me a pleasant satisfaction. “I collect the souls of those lost to me through food,” she said.
I am still unsure what she means. If it means convincing even the highest of food critics such as myself that her Burrata is not to be mocked, then she has succeeded admirably.
But I didn’t ask for clarification, my dears, because a gathering of other old timers had formed in the parking lot of the cemetery as I finished my meal. Their lack of style and dead glares made me want to be long gone before I needed to interact any further with these small-
town folks. So, I am signing off for now. I want to upload this episode before making the rest of my drive home. And I better do it quickly. Despite the best cheese, dare I say, in the Northern Hemisphere, my stomach is beginning to spasm and the tingling sensations running up my arms are bothersome. Perhaps I need a quick nap in my car to alleviate these pains. Adios, my dears. This is Rosy Rosita bidding you adieu!
