St. Louis has caught a pretty terrible rap these days food-clever; a few weeks ago, it changed into the doughy epicenter of #bagelgate, wherein the net cried foul at a photograph of a “St. Louis secret” way to slice bagels—straight down, from pinnacle to bottom, in bread-like slices that seem the stuff of absolute madness.
I’m not here to guard what is obviously a bagel-slicing technique for fools and madmen. But I did sense experience of private unhappiness while #bagelgate metastasized on Twitter into a broader rebuke of St. Louis food lifestyle:
Clearly, these are tongue-in-cheek, painting St. Louis meals lifestyle as a Mad Max dystopia wherein up is down, black is white, and breakfast bread is sliced the wrong manner across. But a few went to some distance:
Let’s get one factor out of the way: I’m not from St. Louis. I grew up in corn-fed rural Illinois, the part of the nation that needs more than something Chicago might break up off from the relaxation of the kingdom and take all its massive-town liberals (and, reputedly, its tax revenue) with it. However, I did visit the college in northeast Missouri: Truman State University, the “Harvard of the Midwest” as we call ourselves. Our best exports are Jenna Fischer, WWE’s Kane, and annual placement on U.S. News And World Report’s listing of faculties which have the “best cost.”
Growing up a shy, nerdy, closeted bi child in a rural farm metropolis, it’s secure to say I hadn’t actually observed “my people” yet. But university turned into a lovable, transformative revel in for me. Most Truman college students tend to hail from St. Louis and the encircling suburbs, as a result forming the majority of my new friend organization. I was excited about their peculiar methods—calling pop “soda,” their die-hard devotion to the Cardinals, and yes, their delicious pizza.
What is St. Louis-fashion pizza, you may ask? Imagine if pizzas had been nachos, and you’ve were given the overall gist of it. The base is a buttery, cracker-thin crust, the shyer cousin to traditional leavened pizza dough. Rather than triangular slices, St. Louis-fashion pie is reduced tavern-fashion (or party-style) into squares or rectangles for easy dissemination to the hungry hundreds (just like many Chicago tavern-style pizzas, definitely).
This is where I generally tend to lose many potential converts to skinny-crust pizza. You can’t fold it! they say. But who desires folding when you’ve got a super, 4-square-inch slice of robust, crispy crust that could take care of something toppings you placed on it? As a man who admittedly nonetheless doesn’t end his crusts, St. Louis-fashion pizza is the precise sauce/cheese automobile for me. There’s no awkward, unflavored breadstick to brush aside at the quit.
At this factor, I ought to still be describing Chicago tavern-style pizza. But what sets St. Louis style pizza apart from the opposite faculties of Midwestern thin crust is the tons-ballyhooed Provel cheese: a processed blend of cheddar, Swiss, and provolone that basically tastes like a classier Velveeta. It’s a curious vehicle to make sure, especially in case you’re now not used to it; it could flavor a little plastic-y and gummy to the unaccustomed palate. Processed cheese is never the healthiest alternative, and there’s a layer of artificiality to the whole affair—but good day, pizza became never a fitness food besides, and it’s smooth to simply inform yourself the thin crust makes up for it. That’s what going low-carb means, proper?