Kelly Bare: Desperation leads to ... cooking
It begins so innocently. Someone will mention they had one when they were last home. Or you'll call your brother on his cell phone and he'll be eating one at the Husker game, talking with his mouth full. Soon you're twitching, sniffing, sure you can smell it on the breeze. The whites of your eyes go all red and spiral-y like cartoon characters hypnotized, or in love.
You're locked into a craving: You've gotta have a Runza.
For those of us who can't get Runza on demand, this can be a serious affliction. During a recent fit, I decided to take action. Step one, of course, was Runza.com. I'd had a mail-order Runza once before. It was dry. But I was willing to give it another shot, maybe order up a bunch, re-heat them with care, have some uninitiated friends over, change some lives.
Sounded like fun.
But not $86.25 worth of fun, which is what Runza.com informed me my little scheme would set me back, at the least. It's not just the price that put me off; it's the principle: For the smallest-available 15-Runza pack, the shipping ($45) costs more than the sandwiches themselves ($41.25).
Disappointed, and hungry, I decided to soothe myself with my new favorite New York sandwich, a banh mi from a place called Nicky's Vietnamese Sandwiches. The "classic" has Vietnamese ham, roasted ground pork, pickled carrots, cucumber, cilantro, jalapenos, mayonnaise and the slightest smear of pate (a subtle but tasty influence) on a toasted baguette. It's fresh as can be, crunchy, delicious and, miraculously, only $3.95.
As I ate, I debated scouring New York's many German restaurants for something similar to a Runza: an ancestor, perhaps, or some descendant of a cousin separated at Ellis Island. But as my blood sugar leveled, a flash of inspiration rocked my city-dwelling, takeout-addled brain. There was another way: If I could remember how to do something called "cooking," I could try to make my own.
The next day, I looked up the number for Runza headquarters. I suspected that they wouldn't give me the recipe but had to check, in the name of journalism. It was two days before Thanksgiving when I called, identified myself and asked for the recipe.
"We can't give it out," confirmed the sweet, slightly nervous person on the other end of the line. "We just say it's hamburger, cabbage, onions and spices, with a homemade bread. We don't know what spices. No one at our office knows."
She told me that Becky, the person I would really need to speak with, was out of town for the holiday and, moreover, could I just write an article without their permission? I told her that I could, and was going to.
My next step was Google. One of my first clicks, to a site called cooks.com, revealed 60 individual recipes. Some seemed written for the hardy Nebraska country cook who would know, offhand, how to make "one recipe sweet roll dough." Ha! One called for green pepper and celery — sacrilege! Some were for "Runza pie" or "Runza casserole"; many called for frozen bread dough or crescent rolls (a no-no when you were raised by kitchen-shortcut-phobic Nancy Bare). One called for a quarter pound of Velveeta. Blecch.
But several seemed to have the same plausible recipe in the same basic proportions, and one of those included steps for making the bread from scratch. I started a grocery list.
The night before Thanksgiving, my sous-chef Tallboy and I got cookin'. I guess I got swept away by the "test kitchen" atmosphere, because I decided to concoct a variant, a faux-Runza based on the Iron Turkey Burger I loved at a place in San Francisco called Frankie's Bohemian Café. (I used the same proportions as the Runza recipe, swapping ground turkey and spinach for ground beef and cabbage. The other ingredients stayed the same. And, because life is empty without cheese, we used American on the Runza and fresh mozzarella on the turkey variation.)
The filling went well. It takes a while to "wilt" cabbage in butter, cabbage being sturdy stuff, but we got it done.
The dough was unwieldy. Perhaps I let it rise too long, but after a while it was threatening to take up all available space in my kitchen. By the time I was ready to roll it out, it was playing Elastigirl from "The Incredibles" — no matter how aggressively I wielded the rolling pin, it tried to snap back before I had a chance to cut out the required 6-inch squares.
In the end, the bread-to-filling ratio was off, and I wasn't able to replicate the trademark rectangle shape. But the taste was spot-on, bringing me straight back to a real Runza and to the even more cabbage-y, copyright-friendly "Bunzas" once (and hopefully still) served in Lincoln Public Schools lunchrooms.
Mission accomplished. Even cabbage-averse Tallboy, after tasting some of each variety, went back for seconds of the "real" Runza.
Maybe I'll ditch my day job, set up a lunch cart in Midtown and spread the Runza (Bunza?) gospel.
Not that the turkey concoction wasn't tasty, too. I really think it has potential. I may try it again, maybe with a whole-wheat dough. All I need is a catchy name —and a policy on sharing the recipe.
Kelly Bare is a writer and editor in New York. She can be reached at kellybare76@yahoo.com.
You're locked into a craving: You've gotta have a Runza.
For those of us who can't get Runza on demand, this can be a serious affliction. During a recent fit, I decided to take action. Step one, of course, was Runza.com. I'd had a mail-order Runza once before. It was dry. But I was willing to give it another shot, maybe order up a bunch, re-heat them with care, have some uninitiated friends over, change some lives.
Sounded like fun.
But not $86.25 worth of fun, which is what Runza.com informed me my little scheme would set me back, at the least. It's not just the price that put me off; it's the principle: For the smallest-available 15-Runza pack, the shipping ($45) costs more than the sandwiches themselves ($41.25).
Disappointed, and hungry, I decided to soothe myself with my new favorite New York sandwich, a banh mi from a place called Nicky's Vietnamese Sandwiches. The "classic" has Vietnamese ham, roasted ground pork, pickled carrots, cucumber, cilantro, jalapenos, mayonnaise and the slightest smear of pate (a subtle but tasty influence) on a toasted baguette. It's fresh as can be, crunchy, delicious and, miraculously, only $3.95.
As I ate, I debated scouring New York's many German restaurants for something similar to a Runza: an ancestor, perhaps, or some descendant of a cousin separated at Ellis Island. But as my blood sugar leveled, a flash of inspiration rocked my city-dwelling, takeout-addled brain. There was another way: If I could remember how to do something called "cooking," I could try to make my own.
The next day, I looked up the number for Runza headquarters. I suspected that they wouldn't give me the recipe but had to check, in the name of journalism. It was two days before Thanksgiving when I called, identified myself and asked for the recipe.
"We can't give it out," confirmed the sweet, slightly nervous person on the other end of the line. "We just say it's hamburger, cabbage, onions and spices, with a homemade bread. We don't know what spices. No one at our office knows."
She told me that Becky, the person I would really need to speak with, was out of town for the holiday and, moreover, could I just write an article without their permission? I told her that I could, and was going to.
My next step was Google. One of my first clicks, to a site called cooks.com, revealed 60 individual recipes. Some seemed written for the hardy Nebraska country cook who would know, offhand, how to make "one recipe sweet roll dough." Ha! One called for green pepper and celery — sacrilege! Some were for "Runza pie" or "Runza casserole"; many called for frozen bread dough or crescent rolls (a no-no when you were raised by kitchen-shortcut-phobic Nancy Bare). One called for a quarter pound of Velveeta. Blecch.
But several seemed to have the same plausible recipe in the same basic proportions, and one of those included steps for making the bread from scratch. I started a grocery list.
The night before Thanksgiving, my sous-chef Tallboy and I got cookin'. I guess I got swept away by the "test kitchen" atmosphere, because I decided to concoct a variant, a faux-Runza based on the Iron Turkey Burger I loved at a place in San Francisco called Frankie's Bohemian Café. (I used the same proportions as the Runza recipe, swapping ground turkey and spinach for ground beef and cabbage. The other ingredients stayed the same. And, because life is empty without cheese, we used American on the Runza and fresh mozzarella on the turkey variation.)
The filling went well. It takes a while to "wilt" cabbage in butter, cabbage being sturdy stuff, but we got it done.
The dough was unwieldy. Perhaps I let it rise too long, but after a while it was threatening to take up all available space in my kitchen. By the time I was ready to roll it out, it was playing Elastigirl from "The Incredibles" — no matter how aggressively I wielded the rolling pin, it tried to snap back before I had a chance to cut out the required 6-inch squares.
In the end, the bread-to-filling ratio was off, and I wasn't able to replicate the trademark rectangle shape. But the taste was spot-on, bringing me straight back to a real Runza and to the even more cabbage-y, copyright-friendly "Bunzas" once (and hopefully still) served in Lincoln Public Schools lunchrooms.
Mission accomplished. Even cabbage-averse Tallboy, after tasting some of each variety, went back for seconds of the "real" Runza.
Maybe I'll ditch my day job, set up a lunch cart in Midtown and spread the Runza (Bunza?) gospel.
Not that the turkey concoction wasn't tasty, too. I really think it has potential. I may try it again, maybe with a whole-wheat dough. All I need is a catchy name —and a policy on sharing the recipe.
Kelly Bare is a writer and editor in New York. She can be reached at kellybare76@yahoo.com.
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