Fancy a Burrito? Nah, I'll just have an Esposito

I have little to say in the culinary field. I am as far removed from the profession of cooking as might be attainable. I rely heavily on the package printed cooking methods, microwave settings, and a dial-a-pizza to satisfy an un-relenting rumbling belly that speaks beyond the control of my own conscience.

But it was a particular jiggle that bellowed from my midriff the started a sequence of events that changed the lives of very few, but did lead to a book not being opened and an answer never read…what do you call a piece of bread with jam on top?

Many of my educated and perhaps confused friends have called upon the well known identifier of bread based goods “the sandwich” to recognise this piece of food stuff. However I would like to point out to my honourable friends the food stuff known as “the sandwich” needs a mirrored piece of breaded stuff to run at parallel to the base item to be recognised as “sandwich”. This piece of food not yielding such characteristics means it lay a whole slice of breads worth away from being known as “sandwich”.

It was shuddering to know there is no house hold name for this item that I wish to consume. I have enjoyed the slice of bread topped with a variety of supporting players, be it butter and Nutella, mothers made marmalade, the long forgotten but still available “fluff”, marmite and in desperate times vegemite, or even slices of banana which was a carefully deliberate action considered on days devoid of your devotion. But how, in this most modern of ages, do we recognise this item. It is no good to call it “sandwich”, unless of course the bread with topping is folded in hand to create inners nestled softly between the bready goodness.

How dare we let ourselves live without name for the common, how dare we live in a world where what we consume has no identifier beyond a muffled description shouted from one lounge based individual to a serving counterpart in the kitchen. Why must I write to further identify the yet to be identified. It rocks me to the very corps of my laden heart that this most delectable and comforting piece of food has yet to be given a place within our food history. We speak the words of pizza, sausage roll, biscuits, crackers, Ryvita, Kellogg’s crunchy nut cornflakes, Sainsbury’s crunchy flakes, muesli, porridge, and orange squash. We speak them with such ease and fluidity, but beyond the life spans of these kitchen bound items, has lived the singular slice of bread topped with topping and be without name.

But it is no longer. I take you, us, the world and it’s greater existence into the new and greater. I take we all into the future, make our history, and forge new territories in the breaded world

Much like the common name Burrito, which exists as a singular surface wrapped to contain and hold its inners, the newly names has a dual characteristic, being a coined term named after and by its creator, but also to retain a rhythm to the already known burrito. I give you the Esposito

“Fancy a burrito” they may ask…

“nah….just give me an Esposito, don’t fancy a whole Burrito”

This ladies, gentleman, young people and old, confused and bemused, is the birth of the already born, the identity that no one has been after, cares about, or will use, I give you the this name to move us into a new world order.

Now please, for all things good and lovely, get your self a cup of tea, an Esposito, and think about doing something better with your time than reading the ill ramblings of a silly boy.

A trip I want to tell you about that you don't want to hear...

The Start:

How do you make a factory trip to Fritz Hansen sound exciting?! I don’t have any videos to show of the automated machines pressing, pumping, cutting, painting, and sanding their products. I have little memory of the ins and outs of the detail of their product. But most of all, I fear that the end reader wouldn’t be bothered for the most part to hear of a whistle stop tour around the Danish firms production facility.

Further more, the fun, jokes, laughs and giggles came about not far and few between, but from the result of the classic ‘had to be there moments’ that then dictated the resulting and unrelenting piss taking.

But never the less, given that it was an out of the ordinary adventure for a new kid in the designery world I’ll do my best to fill in the gabs of one boring anecdote to another with tales of mystery, wit, charm, and a dabble of ridiculousness (actually this never happens) all based on the concrete reality of the two day venture to Denmark…

The Phone:

…The story starts a couple of days before when the demons at work played host to one of the least accomplished, yet successful thefts of my time. Through pure ignorance and content, I (the target) ignorantly and foolishly positioned my phone in a pocket. The evil doers and subsequently and hopefully wholly guilt ridden players targeted my ignorance and called foul play, removing what I owned from previously mentioned ‘pocket’, and allowed my materialistic position to abandon I, it’s owner, and left for the sweaty palms of it’s ill minded and dirty victor of which now claimed ownership.

It left me £150 poorer (gold insurance isn’t as golden as I thought) and without a telephone, and more importantly at this stage an alarm clock. The trip to Copenhagen was due to start at 6:20 when a taxi would deliver me to Heathrow, however through shear fear of not naturally waking up, I attempted to stay conscious for the evening, resulting in 20 minute naps for 5 hours until the hand reached 6 o’clock and I could dress myself.

The Airport:

The missing phone caused further problems once at the airport. Excited about laying eyes upon the gleaming Terminal 5, and suffering swathes of disappointment as the grandeur of the port that I was so expecting seemed never to transpire. I searched for my compatriot travellers that, according to the flight info were waiting at gate A…..or B…., D,…or G. Now as helpful information goes, and given the size of the airport, this was ridiculous, so I paid due curtsey to the automated check-in, collected my flimsy ‘ticket’ and took to security.

After being confidently groped, patted, and shouted at for numerous ill doings in my etiquette whilst attempting to navigate the removal of belts, shoes, jackets, coins, pens, more coins, paper you don’t even need to remove, passport, ticket that you mistake as rubbish, wallet, phone, i-pod, and another coin, I eventually found my group upon the plane and unsurprisingly, and very, o so very thankfully we flew without crashing to Copenhagen.

Plane lands, passports checked, bladders duly emptied, bus found, ‘pimp’ section delineated (see picture), beer opened, beer drunk, Fritz Hansen promo speech delivered, British flag spotted, factory found, bus stopped, we entered the factory for our tour.

The Whistle Stop Tour:

I had previously written a rambling smoosh of nonsensical and ultimately dull anecdotal hopelessness that should be consumed by no good person. So I’ve refrained from describing anything more, will drop a couple of photos in…and leave it at that.

Jans:

We were taken for dinner to a local foodie basement garnished with the stereotypical inhabitants of Denmark, reached the bottoms of a healthy volume of wine, and shown the door. We were then taken for drink to a local drinky basement garnished with the un-stereotypical inhabitants of Denmark, reached the bottom of an un-healthy volume of white Russians, whilst under the scrutiny of a fellow punter named Jans, offering games of tennis, rugby, and chess, whilst convincing us of his submarine selling business and in the process, looking indescribably silly. But I suppose who were we to barge into his local and claim superiority, so we indulged in his anecdotal prowess and licked up the ramblings of a drunk.

The End: 

…so that’s one of the two days…mirror the events and you can build your own idea of the second day. I’ve wasted enough your time, and can only hope that this particular entry doesn’t leave a lasting impact and it can disband from your memory in due haste.

I’m off to waste the time of cat…

(the travelling peeps having a 'casual' sunday lunch on of course, Fritz Hansen product)