A Review of Minneapolis' Only Bagel Place

Astute fans may remember that this isn’t the first time I’ve taken flyover states to task over their food quality. And although I think ultimately it’s not THAT big of deal, there are times that I feel a little bad about it. The states in question are often less diverse, less densely populated, and generally poorer; it’s easy to see how they might become culinarily stunted. But Connecticut? There are no excuses. Your pizza looks like an emaciated heroin addict. Its pattern of huge black burn marks appears to indicate that it was cooked on one of those old lightbulbs you’re not allowed to buy anymore. “Waaah no that’s just our style. It’s from the old country. And actually, pizza experts agree—“ SILENCE!!!! (I hit that fucking nerd with the Paul Atreides yell, knocking him out of his big ass glasses and orthopedic shoes and sending him hurtling backward directly into nothing of any cultural import). 

I am quite proud of Oulish Gloin, my creation, I would even call it my son. His name and visage appeared spontaneously in my head fully formed, more an act of divine inspiration that any piece of creative work on my part; no doubt an act of divine providence, a BCE impregnation myth. Now, if you’ve ever perused one of those ‘Signature Food of Every State’ lists (of which there are several— the foods don’t always overlap, but frequently do) you’ll notice that the selections can be divided into a couple of tiers:

Genuinely Iconic

New York, Pizza. Pennsylvania, Philly Cheese Steak. Massachusetts, Clam Chowder. Texas? Presumably some kind of car-sized steak or fajita-grilled sizzling homeless child. Tourist must-haves, pieces of American iconography. 

Local Curios

New Hampshire, Grape Nuts Ice Cream. Utah, Fry Sauce. Ohio, Skyline Chili. These are more akin to ‘fun facts’ than they are to meals, but okay, perhaps worth trying if you’re in the area— or at the very least, something for outsiders to smile at with gawking amusement, emblems of quant otherhood. 

What Are We Doing Here

This is the part where the writers try to argue that the signature food of some C or D list state is steak or popcorn or orange juice or some shit. Embarrassing. At least wear your horrors on your sleeve. And speaking of…

Hills Have Eyes Gibbering Nightmare Fuel

Like it or not, this is where the real America lives. This is where a cackling prospector with the butt flap footy pajamas makes you eat a bloated horse testicle (complete with all the ‘fixins’ ) while he holds a giant cartoon blunderbuss at your head. Scrapple. Rocky Mountain Oysters. Loose Meat Sandwiches. And yeah, I’m putting Minnesota Hotdish on there too. A dish composed entirely of store-bought canned and frozen goods may not look or taste as gross of some of these other contenders, but it is spiritually far bleaker. Suburbia incarnate, stripped of any residual wealth or cosmopolitanism. This is the food that everyone’s midwestern mom-- who is no doubt one of the nicest women you’ve ever met (until you bring up politics)-- definitely ’’’’’makes’’’’’’ a mean version of. I banish you. I’m sorry, but I banish you. 

What was I saying? Oh yeah, this is the tier that Oulish Gloin is based on. Visually, it’s a sort of mixture of Bosch, I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream, cow tools, and an unidentifiable mammal organ. 

People like to tout India, or Mexico, or Italy— quality eats, no question. But I’ve always had a bias for the cuisines of east and southeast asia, all kinds. They’ve cracked the code over there, man. I was in Myanmar with my dad and a dude at a food cart sold me 500 tiny shrimps fried up whole into a single gigantic cracker. Beastmode. Nothing more.