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DISH Dear Mr. Editor, Sir:
I already know what you're thinking: "A food crime committed on Nantucket? Is that something new?" More to the point: "Is that worth bumping new uses for stew meat?" Mr. Editor, Sir, yes, it is. Brace yourself: faux crab passed off as real crab in a maki roll! Gives you the shudders, right? That's precisely why I have every confidence you'll agree that an offense of such magnitude must not go unnoticed. It happened last weekend. The husband and I were out at a (nameless) spot for dinner. (I'll share its identity with you in person; it's best we have no written evidence.) I've been to the spot before, always muttering in deep pain and angst about paying anything more than four bucks for a California Roll - one that's made with fake crab, that is. Mind you, Sir, I have no problem with paying more for real crab. Not by a long shot. I happily pony up eight smackers when I'm at the mecca: Nobu. There, you needn't question whether it's real or not; quality is a given. Otherwise, I appreciate restaurants with the decency to note their use of imposters as "Kani Kama" or "Kamaboko" on the menu, particularly when the price they're charging could buy you three packages of "seafood delights" at the grocery store. Bottom line - I think it's fine to use fake stuff; just spell it out on the menu or keep prices in line with inferior quality ingredients. Extortion is never appealing to savvy diners; am I right, Sir? Anyhow, I knew from prior trial and error that the nameless spot uses fake crab in its California Rolls, so I steered clear. But, being a crab lover, I thought I'd find satisfaction from what was listed on the menu as "Spicy Crab Roll," particularly since the price was $13. I figured I was in for some fine jumbo lump. However, when our waitress returned with the order, I couldn't believe what I saw: the telltale dyed-red exterior which is the hallmark of...fake crab! Before she could escape, I slammed her with a question: "Is this surimi?" She became functionally illiterate: she studied my face for a few seconds in an apparent effort to determine whether I was shocked from delight or rage. Apparently, she decided that my use of a word that vaguely sounded like an exotic Japanese delicacy indicated joy. "Yes!" she blurted, her smile partially quivering. And then she vanished. Within seconds, I dissected the pathetic piece of highway robbery. Indeed, it was surimi. "Surimi," Sir, as you know, means "minced meat" in Japanese, standing in extreme opposition to "sashimi," which translates to "pierced meat" and refers to very fresh, raw seafood. Granted, no one eats raw crab, so by definition, crab of any sort could never qualify as sashimi. But let me remind you of the ingredients of the charlatan: white fish meat, water, wheat starch, tapioca starch, egg whites, soybean oil, salt, sugar, sorbitol and isolated soy protein. You're a reasonable man, not to mention one with a fine palate; do you want to pay $13 for a few chunks of that rolled up in nori? I think not. But herein lies the real crime - there is no crime! No, we cannot list the nameless spot in the police blotter. They've committed a culinary crime, yes, even a moral one in my book. But according to the FDA, it's entirely permissible. Regulations pertaining to the identification of food as "imitation" pertain only to products sold in grocery stores; restaurants have no requirement to fess up about what they serve, no matter how phony or inferior it is. And guess what? As of three months ago, even surimi producers themselves can participate in the hoodwinking. In a three-page letter dated November 20, 2006, the FDA officially caved-in to 14 years of lobbying and pressure from the National Fisheries Institute and an outfit called "Genuine Alaska Pollock Producers" ("GAPP") and dropped the requirement that surimi be labeled on packaging as "imitation crab." In the stead of those two words will now be this doozie-of-an-artful 11-word description: "Crab-flavored seafood, made with surimi, a fully cooked fish protein." I'm sure you'll be thrilled to know that the phrase can be adapted for surimi made to mimic lobster, scallops and shrimp. Here's the jig: According to FDA regulations pertaining to labeling, food is imitation if it's "a substitute for and resembles another food but is nutritionally inferior (defined as "any reduction in the content of an essential nutrient that is present in a measurable amount") to that food." Bottom line: If it's not nutritionally inferior, and is labeled "descriptively," it's not considered imitation. Ready for more unpunished crimes, Sir? Buckle up - While surimi can claim to be both low in fat and a decent source of phosphorous and magnesium, a single three-ounce serving contains 751 milligrams of sodium. (!) The same serving size of blue crabmeat contains only 237 milligrams. And whereas real crab is an excellent source of Vitamin B-12, copper, niacin and folate, surimi's got none of any. But the real kicker is protein: a three-ounce serving of surimi has 6 grams; the same amount of Alaskan king crab and blue crab - not to mention lobster - provides 16. Ultimately, it came down to Alaska Republican Senator Ted Stevens's allegiance to his state's pollock/surimi industry rather than its shell-fishermen; he's the one who pressed Congress to change FDA regulations. Summed up by Rick Muir, spokesman for "GAPP," "Imitation is not something that people get all warm and fuzzy about." Damn straight about that, Rick. The tasteless odorless paste of a product is made on factory trawlers. Once the minced whitefish is rinsed, all water-soluble elements are dissolved, leaving behind a residue of tightly bonding proteins with enough gel strength to be molded into any shape desired. It's been known to the Japanese - the largest producers in the world - since 1100 A.D.; perhaps not so surprising. What's creepy is that they have over 300 food products made from it. Yow. And listen to this: the United States is surimi's second largest producer, with eight companies clustered in Alaska, Washington and Oregon molding out 185 million pounds of it a year for a wholesale value of $300 million. Surimi's introduction to the United States in the late 1970s started out overtly fake enough for my satisfaction. Not only was it labeled as imitation, but the names of its analog products, such as "Sea Legs" and "Crab Delights," were silly enough to reveal it as a poser. You almost deserved what you got if you thought you were buying real crab or lobster. Today, though, it's secretly slipped into everything from hot dogs, chicken nuggets and pizza toppings to ice cream and potato chips! I suppose the lesson to be taken away is "read the labels," which is certainly sound advice for anyone with a fish allergy (as opposed to an allergy to shellfish, which, we've established, surimi contains none of). But while that might work at the grocery store, it won't work at the nameless spot and other places like it. Mr. Editor, Sir, it's not even so much that I hate the stuff. It's an odd product for sure, but it has its place when used in such oddities as "Neptune salad." I just don't like the idea of being taken for a ride. Nor do you, I'm sure. For now, it seems all we can do is get the word out and raise diner awareness. Imagine - you and I, the Woodward
and Bernstein of crab rolls. I In a large bowl, chop or shred faux crab and mix well with all ingredients, except lettuce and pita; cover and refrigerate. Serve in pita pockets lined with lettuce leaves. Try to enjoy. Serves 4. | |||||
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