This past Saturday, chefs from around the globe gathered here in Los Angeles — a city with little to no culinary expertise — to pay their respects to the Gods of cheese. I’m talking about the First Seventh Annual Grilled Cheese Invitational, an event I “covered” as a member of the “press” on Saturday for this very website. It was the first time in at least four years I’ve played the “Can I have a press pass?” card, and lo-and-behold it turns out mentioning to people that you’re a blogger can still work towards getting you into an enticing event for free.
I have a long and storied history with grilled cheese sandwiches. When I was a child, very similar to my adult years, I did not eat a whole lot. In fact, I ate way less than I do now. I could not develop a taste for anything. Whenever my family went out to a restaurant, all I ordered was grilled cheese. From birth until I discovered cheeseburgers somewhere around the age of 10, grilled cheese pretty much accounted for every non cereal meal I consumed. In fact, pretty much everybody in my extended family has a “favorite story” about little Evan falling asleep in his grilled cheese sandwich at (insert household or restaurant). I was such a weak little malnourished bitch I would slip into a food coma before I could leave the table. To say that I know a good sandwich when I see one would be an understatement. I consider myself to be the absolute best judge for any bread-butter-cheese cook-off. When Phoebe told me about the Grilled Cheese Invitational (GCI), I knew I had to attend.
The event was created by Tim Walker in 2003, and describes itself as the “largest, craziest and most exciting Grilled Cheese cooking contest in the country,” where amateur and professional chefs compete side-by-side in the pursuit of creating the perfect sandwich. I arrived extra early just in case. I don’t know what “just in case was,” I just knew I wanted to be there early. My hangover-induced throbbing headache, sensitivity to light and movement, and terrible fatigue would not stop me from gorging myself on greasy food. After all, isn’t that the best cure for a shitty hangover?
I arrived at the Los Angeles State Historic Park downtown shortly after the scheduled opening at 12pm, and
found an ungodly-sized line outside the park gates. The Green Truck, was parked outside the gate, serving up healthy gourmet organic food to those who had to wait in line. I nervously walked to the front of the line and showed my pass to the event staff members, and they graciously let me in. Seriously, if I had to stand on that line I would have considered leaving. It was so massive, that there were still people waiting to get into the event three hours after it began. Those people deserve some recognition, because their dedication to Grilled Cheese is incalculable.
The event was set up around a central Kraft Singles tent, where chefs cooked free grilled cheese sandwiches for the entire event. A large stage was constructed twenty yards from the tent, and flanking both sides of the stage there were two long rows of tables where chefs would be cooking. The tables were two deep, with a gap of maybe 8 feet between them. This is where “runners” would transport sandwiches from the chefs to the judges. I spent a few minutes near the tent speaking with one of the chefs, asking him how it felt to be the only person actually cooking at the GCI once the 12pm start time had passed. He laughed and said, “Yeah!” before returning to his culinary duties: taking premade, precooked sandwiches and throwing them on a grill until they were warmed up. Those things tasted gross. I bumped into another member of the press corps, though I forget his name, and we talked about our respective journalistic credentials. He worked for some food website that was, “hoping to move to print,” in the near future. I told him I’m my own boss, but it’s not a big website, just a silly little thing. We joked about how for online publishers, the goal is still go move onto print even though more magazines and newspapers are folding with each passing day. He asked me for a business card, and I quickly lamented leaving my heart shaped Post-It notes in the car. Those things make the cheapest, gayest business cards ever.
I met Lauren Cobey, who I’d been exchanging e-mails and phone calls with in anticipation of covering the event. She said my interview with Mr. Walker was scheduled for 2:15, and I silently prayed that my diminished mental faculties could allow me to remember such a small tidbit of information: Meet back here in two hours for an interview. Got it. I moved on to the Izze station, where free sparkling water drinks were offered in abundance. That was when I realized I’d been out in the sun for 15 minutes and I was already really, really dehydrated. Maybe I should have brought along a water bottle? Eh…how much worse could it get.
As the first hour of the event passed, no one outside of the Kraft Singles tent had fried up a single sandwich yet. Many of the cheftestants had been registered and were setting up their stations, but few if any members of the public had entered the park. I scooted through the barriers separating chefs from judges and began to stalk out those who possessed the look of a good chef. I stopped and talked to a couple wearing Baltimore Orioles jerseys, and we spoke about how amazing Adam Jones and Nick Markasis are. They shared recipes and secrets, while the woman at the next burner over discussed how she’d amped up the amount of cleavage she was showing to earn more votes from judges. At the GCI, the depths to which one will sink in order to earn an extra vote are limitless. A few stations away, a previous GCI winner was building a fortress of bricks behind which he hid his ingredients. Ah, but I was close enough to spy fresh mozzarella, sharp cheddar and one other white cheese, which he planned on melting onto thick slices of African bread. To his right, a gentleman in an apron that looked like a CDC-issued bodysuit snidely commented that mozarella doesn’t go well with grilled cheese. Eyeing his championship trophy, the chef being taunted responded, “Really?” The guy in the apron sheepishly added, “…on it’s own.” Then he returned to setting up his own station.
Suddenly, I turned around to see there were a ton of people inside the park. A lot of them were already in line waiting for sandwiches. The competition still hadn’t started, but the opening ceremony was underway. The MC handed the microphone first over to Tim Walker, then a guy dressed up as a priest. It took about 10 minutes, but finally they announced that the chefs in the first heat could begin grilling. Ugh. Finally.
“First Heat,” you ask? Well, there were three categories of competition at the GCI. “The Missionary Position” consisted of any kind of bread, any kind of butter, and any kind of cheese (or combination) but no additional ingredient. “The Kama Sutra” included those three ingredients plus additional ingredients. One group cooked using just vegetables, and one using just meats. “The Honey Pot” also included any additional ingredients used to create a sandwich that would be best served for dessert.
Suddenly I realized the inherent flaw in the GCI system. In order to receive a taste of a sandwich, you had to be registered as a judge, and you had to trade one ticket (only judges were given tickets) for a sample cut of one sandwich. Several hundred people still hadn’t been granted access to the park, and a massive line had formed inside the park where people were waiting be registered as judges and receive tickets. I was not given any tickets. I walked back to the Kraft tent and found a staff member, and asked what the rules said about members of the press sampling sandwiches. I was given two judging tickets, which I guess I was expected to somehow make last for the next four hours. Absolutely ridiculous. How can I, as a world-class journalist, accurately report on the quality of the food being served at this event based on two samples out of hundreds that were being cooked? This was, to say the least, a crock of shit. My only solace was that before the first heat had finished cooking, the event ran out of tickets for judges. People still hadn’t entered the event and they were being told, “Sorry, you can’t try any of the food, but there are free Kraft singles sandwiches at the Kraft Singles Tent!” What a shit show.
While I should have prodded Mr. Walker about this during our interview, I convinced myself it wasn’t his fault, and instead asked him why, as a self-described grilled cheese chef, he hadn’t entered the competition on his own. He said he didn’t want to deal with the shame that would follow losing. I asked about plans to expand the GCI to new regions of the US, and he mentioned cities like Washington, DC, Portland, Chicago and New York as potential future homes of the event. Thanks Mr. Walker, now I’m going to go see if my increasingly hungover ass can’t Jew my way into at least one or two free samples.
Over the course of the next three hours, I was able to try 8 different sandwiches. I had more fun talking to the cheftestants than eating their food. I insulted the guy who was using Kraft Singles and Wonder Bread by walking up to him, looking at his ingredients and saying, “There’s always one…” Clearly I’d forgotten that Journalism 101 rule: don’t open a conversation by insulting your subject. A Latin fellow in a blue t-shirt took great pride in describing his homemade vegetarian aoli, and I watched as he expertly spread it onto thick cuts of sourdough bread. As he slowly, deliberately recounted the process of making the aoli, he neglected to notice he was spreading a nappy black hair into the sandwich. I told him I’d be back to try his delicious-sounding creation, but I made sure to steer well clear of his cooking station for the rest of the day.
Some of the sandwiches were really good. Another previous winner, a tiny Latino lady, refused to share her recipe with me. I caught the word “camembert” while she spoke to another chef, but that was it. Her sandwich was delicious. The girls who were cooking their grandma’s recipe made an awesome sandwich, too. A woman who used a four-cheese blend with cave-aged gruyere made a simple but amazing sandwich. The team who made grilled cheese fries fell victim to the “your sample size is too small for me to get a strong idea of how this states” fallacy of cook-off etiquette. The worst sandwich I had all day was packed with spicy peppers, caramelized onions, and a fried egg. It was served with a cup of hot sauce and a cup of sweetened milk. The consistency was horrible. I enjoyed the spice, though.
To be honest, I was underwhelmed by the Grilled Cheese Invitational. Perhaps the event has grown too fast. When a cooking competition as regimented as this one was runs out of tickets for judges less than halfway through the event, there is a big problem. In fact, I heard from several people who planned on attending the event that they did not go because they’d heard about the excruciatingly long lines and lack of grilled cheese. When the cooking exhibition involving non-participants and the free Kraft sandwiches have longer lines than those actually competing in the contest, something has gone horribly wrong. Still, I left with a stomach full of grilled cheese and some funny memories. One would think after seven years the planners of the event wouldn’t underestimate the size of the crowd, but maybe by next year the kinks will be worked out.
Later I watched the NFL Draft and ate barbecue, then for dinner I had Two Boots. It was a lot of food.
