Ours is a nation of eaters.
Americans have always been willing to embrace the new and the different on their plates. True, that occasionally leads to a Manifest Destiny of the waistline, but it also means we're insatiably curious — and fiercely proud — about food.
After sidestepping certain hot-button issues (barbecue, pizza) we aimed for items that have a real American history, even if their roots lie elsewhere. Many readers sent in terrific recommendations last year — and more than a few complaints that we'd omitted something obvious (cheesesteaks) in favor of something obscure (Olympia oysters). Several of your well-argued picks were included in this year's list.
Here are 10 more foods that make America a truly delicious place to live.
Lobster roll You'd immediately target Maine as the source of this down-home delicacy, but truth is hardly that simple. Long Island gets a certain amount of credit. John Mariani's “Encyclopedia of American Food And Drink” traces it to 1966-67, when the owner of the Lobster Roll Restaurant in Amagansett, N.Y., “produced a recipe containing mayonnaise, celery, and seasonings ... ”
Connecticut lays an earlier claim, though (Mariani traces it to a Milford restaurant in the 1920s), and Massachusetts gets more than a few nods. Roadfooders Jane and Michael Stern have uncovered fine specimens throughout the Northeast.
If its origins are hazy, the concept couldn't be more crystal clear. Succulent, sweet lobster meat, mixed with mayo and tucked into a crisp hot-dog bun; it is at once elegant and down-home, a quiet reminder that even luxury ingredients have humble roots.
New York City, in particular, is currently witnessing a lobster-roll renaissance at venues like Pearl Oyster Bar and Ditch Plains in the West Village. Whether it's reasonable to pay north of $22 for crustacean meat jammed into a bun is a personal choice, but the fact that people gladly will in a city where more refined options are in no short supply is testament to the fact that sometimes there's no need to gussy up simple pleasures just for the sake of being fancy.
Maple syrup
This sticky treat has a centuries-old pedigree. As one maple producers group notes: “Maple sugaring was not new to Massachusetts when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock in 1620.”
Native tribes were recorded tapping trees for sap in the first years of the 17th century, and turning the clear, sweet liquid into solid maple sugar. The Iroquois of the Northeast, and the Ojibwe and Ottawas of the Great Lakes, all have their own maple legends.
Though European maples produce little sap, North American varieties create it in abundance and New England settlers were quick to copy the technique, especially as a substitute for costly imported sugar. Sky-high tariffs from the 1764 Sugar Act provided even more incentive. That price advantage for maple remained through much of the 19th century, even as cane sugar became more affordable. But the maple industry in New England (and across the border in Canada) eventually turned its attention to the liquid stuff.
Since the creation in 1888 of Log Cabin Syrup (which mixed maple and cane syrups), it has been crucial to differentiate the real deal from lesser “pancake syrups,” and USDA regulations now mandate that only syrup made “exclusively by the evaporation of pure maple sap” can be called maple syrup, with the end product graded for quality.
If maple syrup is no longer cheap, it is still a food filled with tradition. It's not uncommon to see New Englanders trudge through the woods on a February or March morning, ready to boil down sap and, if Mother Nature cooperates, eat fresh syrup off freshly fallen snow. For all the improvements, the sugaring technique is remarkably similar to the way it was before America's colonial roots were ever in place.
Philly cheesesteak
A true iconic food can often be identified when rivals demand credit for its invention. (No one's scrambling to attach their name to chipped beef on toast, are they?) One such endless fight simmers on at the corner of S. 9th St. and E. Passyunk Ave. in South Philadelphia, where the proprietors of Pat's King of Steaks and Geno's Steaks continue their endless skirmishes.
The timeline is relatively clear-cut. In 1930, Pat Oliveri is said to have tossed sliced beef onto the grill and offered it on an Italian roll. Geno's didn't come until much later — the location opened in 1966 — but founder Joe Vento insists he was the one to add cheese to the meat, making the sandwich worthy of fame.
No surprise that the cheese claim, like most everything else, is in dispute; Pat's insists on credit for the eventual choice of Cheez Whiz as a key element. There are plenty of other cheesesteak joints in Philly, but this now-legendary rivalry is so fierce that if his competitor was shuttered, Pat Oliveri's nephew Frank told Fortune, “I'd buy the place and open it up again. And call it Geno's. And fight with myself.”
What's beyond dispute, though, is just how essential the cheesesteak has become as a symbol of the City of Brotherly Love. Its calories-be-damned gooeyness, and the infamously rigid counter lingo (with? without? C'mon, already!), only add to the legend. The famous aren't allowed to leave Philadelphia, it seems, without a cheesesteak pit stop.
Yes, they're gut-bustingly good, but here's the thing: Without the attitude, the cheesesteak would be a minor fad. Vento recently
caught flak when he posted a sign saying, “This is America. When ordering, speak English.” Time for apologies? Not hardly. It's Philly, after all. Maybe you can get away with asking for provolone, but courtesy costs 50 cents extra.
Gumbo It all starts with okra.
Sure, there are versions of gumbo that manage without the gummy green pods, but the very word “gumbo” hails from the Bantu word kigombo and its linguistic cousins. Roux has an essential place, but okra is what gives gumbo its history. (And let us not talk here of filé.)
You might argue that gumbo is more process than foodstuff, a pathway to flavor far more significant than any one recipe. Is it a matter of including andouille? Are shrimp essential? Perhaps the sheer brilliance of gumbo is that it has never required uniformity.
Even in New Orleans, hungry eaters can detect major shifts in density and spice from block to block. Various styles have their fans, but never forget: When you tuck into a bowl, you keep a crucial tradition alive.
It has never been more important to appreciate the value of Louisiana cooking, and though it's impossible — almost demeaning — to pick just one symbol for this list, gumbo's case is strong indeed.
At post-Katrina benefits across the nation, gumbo has more often than not been the featured centerpiece, and as New Orleans grows itself back to health, gumbo will help tie together memory, loss and hope.
