New York food critic creates Twitter storm by sharing her distaste for syrup,
“How can you hate maple syrup?” the hordes asked, as they banned me from Vermont and declared me persona non grata throughout Canada. Revolted by a New York Times article celebrating ranch dressing, I had tweeted: “Plays to everything that’s wrong with the typical American palate. Even worse than maple syrup if that’s possible.”
How can I hate it? Let me count the ways. But first, I’ll allow that I respect the dedication of the craftspeople producing it, enabling devotees to pour it liberally over pancakes, waffles and every other edible in sight. (And though I appreciate the lore of “sugaring off” — the early spring ritual of gathering sap from maple trees — the phrase has always seemed like an euphemism for something more salacious.)
Basically, what I detest about maple syrup is everything, meaning both texture and flavour. As a rule, I do not like intense sweetness, nor do I like syrups unless they are diluted — as chocolate syrup in soda, for example, or honey in hot tea, or as the defining ingredient in honey cake.
“But what do you put on your pancakes?” some on Twitter asked, to which I replied: “I don’t like pancakes either. Too soggy.” What I do love are crisp-onthe outside-mellow-within waffles, lightly spread with unsalted butter, then topped with a light snowfall of confectioner’s sugar. Never would I sog them down with syrup!
Most of all, it is maple’s flavour that bothers me — even in its most artisanally correct form, as compared with the even more insipid Log Cabin. Truth is, as a child I was beguiled by the adorable cabin-shaped can that held that brand of syrup, so I happily poured it over — what else? — pancakes! As my palate matured, I found that maple flavour tastes cheap, like penny candy, and frankly it is a taste that I do not associate with food. Mostly, when I think “maple,” it calls to mind the trees that are the source of the beautifully mellow wood that distinguishes some of the best early American and colonial furniture.
Perhaps even worse than the syrup are those little maple-leaf-shaped sugar candies sold at tourist sites. I am not alone in this, having heard agreements from a few fellow tweeters.
I should apologize to a couple of my Canadian friends because I keep offending them by publicly disliking so much of their native fare. That would include the thin, sweet-instead-of-salty Montreal bagels with their glassy toppings of brittle seeds; the presumptuous smoked meat claimed to outclass New York deli pastrami; and Quebec-invented poutine, the stultifying mess of fried potatoes smothered in thick brown gravy and clumps of melting cheese curds.
I do cherish Canada’s great smoked salmon, its tangy cheddars and, midsummer, the tiny, pungent blueberries that ripen earlier than usual, thanks to global warming.
There probably is no one around in tweet country who respects the following old admonition, but as we used to say generously, “De gustibus non est disputandum,” or, “In matters of taste, there can be no dispute.” Wanna bet?