Published May 1, 2009 on LA2DAY.com
I have a little secret…I hate grilled cheese.
Even as a kid I couldn’t stand it. Warm, oily goo oozing out of slices of limp bread, charred in creamy liquid fat. Really. I’d rather eat pond scum.
But you’d be surprised how many loyal grilled cheese fanatics there are out there. “How can you hate grilled cheese!” they roar. I hem and haw, and postulate that it has something to do with the quality of the ingredients. But the reality is, bread was meant to be airy and thick, not fried and flattened.
Now that I’ve detailed my aversion to this lame attempt at a sandwich, feel free to have a WTF moment as I disclose the following: last Saturday i spent the entire afternoon in the belly of the beast, the 1st 7th Annual Grilled Cheese Invitational.
Believe me, it wasn’t an easy decision. I passed on the event last year, but my fascination with obscure festivals and celebrations of the mundane outweighed my taste buds. And it was worth every voyeuristic moment.
I was greeted by the cheese princess, who rocked a tiara and a cheddar-colored, form-fitting gown. She snatched up my five dollars and stuffed it into her brassiere. In return, I got a cool little bracelet and entry into the mysterious world of bread, butter, and milk curd.
On the inside everything was chaos. People milled about aimlessly. Some had picnics and children. Some had tattoos and hangovers. But everyone seemed to be having fun. I wandered toward the loudest noise, which turned out to be the Mayor of Cheese MC’ing the festivities. He introduced poets and musicians who read sonnets and sang ballads about first loves named Brie and Kaseri, Gouda and Ricotta.
And then the competitors took their places at the grills. There were three different sandwich styles, each with it’s own heat. The “Missionary” sandwich consisted of bread, butter, and cheese. The “Kama Sutra” allowed for any kind of bread, butter, and cheese, plus any additional ingredients. For dessert, the “Honeypot” — sweeter than Missionary, smoother than Sutra.
I’d like to think that by now, I know what I like and don’t like. But I’m willing to try new things. And I was there anyway. So, I elbowed my way up to the grilling station and latched onto a Kama Sutra. It was called “The Bourbon BBQ Porky.” Tender barbeque pulled pork with melted fontina and a little southern slaw on sourdough, lightly browned. If this was grilled cheese, I was ready to revoke my vow of celibacy.
I sampled another sammich. This one was nameless, but mouth-watering. Three types of cheese, two meats, lightly-toasted rye, a pickle, and a roast beef shaving neatly pinned together with a toothpick. And on the side, a thimbleful of Vernors to sweeten the deal.
After about two hours of worshiping the gods of grilled cheese, I was ready to move on. My curiosity and appetite had been satisfied, and I left with a smile on my face. Though I have yet to meet a Missionary I liked, it was fun to dabble in the deviant versions of this cult-classic food.
Story for LA2DAY by Nicole Davenport
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