Sickly Sweet
Unrefined, sugary stories
This week we ride a sugar high and bottom out. We also welcome Guest Gulletier, Steph Seibel to the table.
Shits 2 Ritz
By Greg
This week while running errands around the city, I received the sacred blessing of bird shit, not once but twice. When a pigeon exploded on me during the second bout, I was wearing my favorite black sweatshirt. I looked down at the fresh Jackson Pollock and remarked just how different two dumps could be. This one was clumpy and reminded me of a toppled hot fudge sundae on a hot summer sidewalk. This ignited an insatiable craving. I needed ice cream. Stat.
I recalled my friend Lauren recently singing the praises of Morgenstern's, whose claim to fame was a smorgasbord of weird ass flavors that are "texture-forward." When I arrived the parlor was in an utter state of chaos. A seething mass of influencers and tourists were queued up to get creamed. I watched as a TikTok girlie’s cone spilled "creating content" and then rudely demanded a new cup of raspberry black sesame. The crew at Morgenstern's weren't having it and cooly said, “Next on line!” All this over a steady stream of back to back Jason Derulo songs.
Overwhelmed by the atmosphere and menu, I zeroed in on the listings under “Banana.” All I’ve been craving this year is nanner-flavored dessert, so I was thrilled when I clocked a whole section of the board devoted to my girl. Only one flavor was spared from a sold-out icon: Bananas S’mores. I hate marshmallows. To temper disappointment, I needed to order a second flavor. I looked up over the cashier's soda jerk hat and saw “Peanut Butter and Ritz Cracker.” Hold the fucking cone! One "ball" of that shit too, please! I moved down the line to observe the texture injection process. I watched as my scooper poured a smattering of pulverized Ritz crackers out of a plastic tub and mashed them up into the Peanut Butter base. My heart sank a bit. It was giving Cold Stone, where the performance of chopping up gummy bears and pretzels is designed to distract you from the poor quality of the product.
My skepticism was kicked to the curb when I dug into the PB and R. The peanut butter base was perfect, with a lovely nutty ground and enough salt to balance the sweetness. The Ritz crackers were evenly distributed throughout and indeed gave the ice cream a “texture-forward” punch. Luckily for me, the marshmallow was barely detectable, and the banana and chocolate completed my frozen treat trifecta. As I licked my scoops around SoHo, a couple of drips found their way onto my sweatshirt next to the bird poop. I couldn’t tell which one was which.
The Verdict: A shit on the shirt is worth two in the cone
Name Drops: Morgenstern’s Finest Ice Cream
Mochachoca Lata Ba Ba
By Kitty
I feel like I’ve been cruising in food neutral1 since my return from a ten-day trip to Portugal. I visited Madeira and São Miguel, where my diet consisted solely of prego no pão and tosta mistas—garlic steak sandwiches and ham and cheese toasts. I set foot back in the States with what I’ve dubbed a “toddler cold.” The kind little kids get where their sinuses are simultaneously clogged and drippy, and end in a double ear infection. I knew that broth and some leafy greens would help heal me physically, but what I craved were comforting classics to lift my spirits.
Not having a proper breakfast sandwich in over a week was a real shock to the system (Where were all the eggs?), so the day after we landed, Nick and I headed straight to Fundati, our local, hand-crafted coffee shop. My usual order includes an iced vanilla latte, but when Nick ordered an iced cafe mocha with skim milk, I exclaimed, “I’ll have what he’s having!”
I couldn’t believe my taste buds. I had turned my nose up at cafe mochas for so long, thinking they were just expensive, caffeinated chocolate milk (they are), but there was no denying the sweet rush I felt guzzling it down. I chugged that thing like a six-year-old washing down a cinnamon sugar pop tart while Rugrats blares in the living room at max volume. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and all. Who knew a little vacation and a sore throat would lead me to act like it was snack time at daycare. I surrendered to the lifestyle and went back the next day for another. Chocolate milk? Pour it in my sippy cup!
The Verdict: Bringing back the milk mustache.
Name Drops: Fundati Coffee
Maple Bender
By Steph Seibel2
Last weekend I drove up to Québec with my boyfriend Wes to visit his family for Sugarfest, Canada’s annual maple syrup harvest. We arrived on a Friday night and Wes’ mom enthusiastically greeted us with a logistical rundown of the Sunday brunch we would be served at a local Cabane a Sucre3. After describing scores of dishes cooked in or with maple syrup, she exclaimed, “I’m gonna have to send you two with some Tampax for the ride home!” Wes and I shared a baffled look and asked why we would need Tampax after brunch. His mom went on to explain how ingesting unfiltered maple sap gives most people explosive diarrhea. We agreed it would be safe to skip on drinking straight from the trees before our 8-hour ride home to NYC.
However, I remained confused by her statement—why Tampax? Maybe Tampax produces menstrual products and diapers in Québec. Or, maybe Tampax was Québécois for diapers, like how people say Kleenex instead of tissue? Her riddle haunted me all weekend. I felt myself dissociating while we chatted over our Tim Horton coffees and again while staring into the abyss of my Poutine.
Suddenly it’s the day of the big Sugarfest brunch, and I’m snapped back to reality in the parking lot of the Sugar Cabane when one of Wes’ cousins nudges a little plastic cup into my hand: “Come! We will sample the trees!”I begin to ask, “Isn’t this the stuff that makes you-” but she’s already frolicking into the woods with a cup of her own. Confused and curious, I ran after her and found her at the base of a maple tree, removing a metal bucket that had been hanging from the trunk. She poured its contents into her cup and some into mine. It looked like water. Grinning and making direct eye contact with me, she cheers’d my cup and began sipping the sap. Was this a test? It felt like a classic cinematic poison scene, but I quickly decided, ehh what the hell? I could use a good blow-out anyway. I stared back into her eyes and sipped, engaging in the ceremony of it all. It was incredible. Smooth and sweet and cold. We ran to the next tree to pillage its wares. This one had grassy undertones. Each consequent tree had its own unique flavor. Mother Nature blows my dick off once again.
Next, we filed into the Cabane and sat at a long table covered in red buffalo check. Women pushed black carts up and down the aisles between the tables, offering dishes that Wes’ mother had previously described. The first course was toast pulled from an antique oven. In front of us on the table was a bowl with a heaping mound of what looked like cinnamon apple butter. Eager and hungry for MORE SUGAR, I took a giant scoop, plopped it on my toast, and hastily bit into it without spreading. “It tastes like...turkey?” I pondered aloud. “No. Pure pork lard.” Another cousin replied as he responsibly spread a microscopic amount on his slice.
After porkin’ out on lard toast, the cart ladies placed a giant bowl of yellow split pea soup in the middle of the table. I served myself a bowl and personalized my bites with some of the provided accouterments: pickled beets, pickled onions, sweet pickles, regular pickles, and Québec ketchup (it’s like a sweet chunky salsa- not my thing). The soup was fine, but I found myself fantasizing about the diarrhea trees.
Post soup, the carti b’s wheeled out what appeared to be the main event: a bowl of maple baked beans (tasted exactly like Bush’s), a platter of smoked ham (eh, not a ham girl), little sausages in a bowl (read: hot dogs), homefries (cubed, not shredded), and a baked omelet (the kind that’s cooked for a catering event and is cut and served like sheet cake). I took a little bit of everything and smothered my plate with maple syrup to give these tired foods a subtle makeover, not unlike removing the eyeglasses from the ugly nerd and being like… k? My first bite was good but not great, but the dish placed in front of me next was about to change everything.
Plopped down on the buffalo check was a bowl of what looked like brown crispy pencil shavings. “Christ Ears!” Wes’ mom shouted to me. I pulled a ribbon out of the bowl and inspected it. Wes whispered, “They’re basically pork rinds.” Yum. Down. I put some in my mouth and felt the rush that only comes from a proper, almost lethal, salt pack. You know, when you can suddenly feel your eyeballs sweating? But the heavens opened and salt-bloated angels sang. I fuckin’ love christ ears. I grabbed a handful, squeezed them into crumbs, and scattered them over my maple-soaked plate. My second bite was a dream. The ugly nerd is actually the princess of… Genovia? Huh! But yeah, they’re that good.
In my opinion, the next dish was Sugar Fest's crown jewel: scrambled eggs cooked in maple syrup. That’s right. I had to use cunty italics to emphasize the fact that a chef didn't just drizzle maple syrup over some eggs; they COOKED THESE BITCHES IN THE SYRUP. THE SYRUP WAS A LUBRICANT BETWEEN THE EGGS AND THE PAN. IT WAS A CONDUCTOR FOR DISTRIBUTING THE HEAT OF THE STOVE SO THAT THE EGGS COOKED EVENLY AND WITHOUT BURNING. THE SYRUP MOLECULES FULLY INTEGRATED INTO THE EGG DURING THE COOKING PROCESS SO THAT THE FLAVOR WAS ROBUST. This. Shit. Was. So. Good. And so sweet! I shall think of her forever.
Finally, dessert. Murmurs about crepes hummed around the table when a cart lady appeared with a bowl of fried dough. “Un ou deux?” she asked me with a piece pinched between the metal tongs in her hand. “Uno” I replied in Spanish, because I am a dumb fuck.
She plopped it on my plate and I stared at it. This was a crepe? It looked like a county fair elephant ear. “You’ve got to pour maple syrup on it,” another cousin helpfully instructed. Right. Of course. I drowned it and took a bite. It’s good! I like it. I like maple syrup and I like fried dough.
The cart lady passes through again, but this time, it’s pie. A sugar pie made with a lot of butter and a lot of, you guessed it, maple syrup. It’s delicious, and I would bet my life that Chef Christina Tosi stole this recipe and rebranded it as Milk Bar’s Milk Pie (Formally known as Crack Pie). After my first bite, another of Wes’ cousins (a goddamn genius) instructed me to pair the pie with a glass of milk, and there I was, playing diarrhea roulette yet again. YOLO.
We finished our meal and waddled toward the exit. Outside, there was a group of people gathered around a bowl of snow that looked like it had little trickles of dog piss on it. Children and adults alike were taking popsicle sticks and rolling up “taffy” made from maple syrup poured onto the snow. I walked over to the bowl, grabbed a stick, twirled up some taffy piss, and shoved it in my mouth. My expectations for this treat were low because, at this point, I probably had a gallon of maple syrup coursing through my veins, but I should have known the Cabane Sucre had one last sap stunt to pull. The taste was mind-blowing and the perfect end to my glorious maple syrup journey. Beaucoup respect.
After some nice conversation around the piss-soaked snow bowl, Wes and I said our goodbyes, packed into the car, and drove into the sunset, full of maple syrup and memories. And if you’re wondering about the ride home to New York: the answer is no, I didn’t shit my Tampax.
The Verdict: Live dangerously and drink the sap.
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Kefan Shi4! See his work here.
If you’d like to be a Guest Gulletier or illustrator, drop us a note at putitinthegullet@gmail.com
Not good, not bad, just eating.
Steph Seibel is a clothing designer, tailor, MSW candidate, and emerging maple enthusiast. Check out her hand drawn t-shirts on her poorly run Instagram business account, @1.800.stehcool.
Québécois for Sugar Shack