ccb in la
For those of you not in the know, creamed chipped beef is pretty much like it sounds. It is a creamy white mixture made primarily of whole milk and butter, made thick by corn starch to reach the consistency of pudding, with thin, small slices (chips, if you will) of dried, salted beef – something like bologna, but a bit saltier, not as pungent, and even cheaper. It is typically considered a breakfast food and typically served on white toast, home fries, English muffins or bagels. This is what it looks like. I admit, it’s not the prettiest thing in the world – I once dated a girl who could not watch me eat it (I’ll give you one guess as to how that relationship turned out) – but it’s delicious. Again, the main ingredients are milk, butter and beef. See anything wrong there? Me neither.
Also called “shit on a shingle” (or S.O.S.), creamed chipped beef was a staple in the military during World War II. I don’t know if this is when my grandfather discovered it or if he had eaten it prior to the service, but I know that growing up my dad and his nine brothers and sisters had creamed chipped beef for dinner once a week. My grandmother would make a giant cauldron of the stuff and I imagine her plopping it down in the center of the family dining room table in their small, three-bedroom South Philly rowhome, the kids lining up with a bowl and some white toast, and my grandmother ladling it out to each of them, soup kitchen-style. These are the types of beautiful memories borne out of the combination of dairy products and low-quality meat.
CCB is prevalent and readily available in Philadelphia. Every diner I know of has it, nestled somewhere on their breakfast menus in that netherworld between omelets and “from the griddle” (the pancakes, French toast and waffles neck of the woods). I can’t explain why CCB is all over Philly – it’s not the indigenous food that one thinks of when they think of Philly, like cheesesteaks or pretzels or scrapple. But then again, I can’t explain why cheesesteaks, pretzels or scrapple are considered Philly foods, except, like CCB, they are cheap and bad for you.
(Cheap and bad for me – sounds like the criteria I followed when choosing most of my ex-girlfriends. Zing!)
Just as I can’t explain why CCB is all of Philly, I’m even more confused as to why I haven’t been able to find it outside of the Philly area – anywhere. As I mentioned, it was a staple in the service during the war; surely WWII was fought by men outside of a 40-mile radius of Philly, no? And surely, some of these men must have gone back to their communities all across America and at some point had a hankering for CCB, right? I mean, I’m not talking crazy here, am I?
Well, apparently I am. I could not find CCB in Boston during college. I could not find CCB in NYC – 90 miles from Center City, Philadelphia – during my seven years there. A pseudo-ex even went so far as to write into New York Magazine or the New Yorker looking for CCB, and the magazine published her letter, confirming that nope, there was no CCB in NYC. I ask, where is the fucking justice? I’ve been all over this dang country and nowhere have I found creamed chipped beef on a menu outside of a forty mile radius of Philadelphia. Shit just ain’t right.
So I imagine my delight when I heard through a grapevine that a place in my new town of Los Angeles serves creamed chipped beef. Holy geez. Finally, something to do in this God-forsaken shit hole of a city – drive 25 miles into Hollywood alone on a Saturday afternoon to eat food that most people can’t look at, let alone eat. God, I’m living it up here in LA.
(Again, good decision to move out of NYC. Seriously, top notch. I think I’m getting a haircut soon, so I’m pretty pumped about that – should kill a solid twenty minutes. Maybe after that I’m repeatedly slam my arm in my car door. Why not, right?)
The place is called Doughboy’s (http://www.doughboys.net/) and, sure enough, CCB is right there on their menu, under the “egg stuff” as “S.O.S.” It reads a little fancier than the CCB I grew up with – I don’t think you can even find asiago bread in Philly (I had four breads growing up – white, hoagie, hot dog, burger) – but the key component, the “rich creamed beef mixture” was there. So a-driving to Hollywood I went.
What I say next might shock you, so both be warned and please accept my apology in advance: Minutes after being served this CCB, I decided then and there to give up on both God and Love – forever. No longer will I apply any sort of moral code to myself because I have been betrayed too many times by the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and all their damned cronies. A man can only be pushed so far before being compelled to react to that which pains him with the ferocity of a wild animal (a wild animal who just drove all the way to Hollywood and who’s really hungry for CCB). I would have also given up on Life, but instead, as soon as the CCB was put in front of me, I promised to dedicate what life I have left to Destruction, Anger, Hate, Fuck, and, if I have time, Poo.
What sat before was not CCB, in the same way that I am not Madonna. Yes, Madonna and I are both human beings. And yes, Madonna and I have both gotten down with the brown on numerous occasions. But that – and our affinity for pointy bras – is where our similarities end. This Doughboys’ CCB was food. And yes, it was on the breakfast part of the menu. And sure, it looked bad for you. But I know CCB, and this…this was no CCB.
First, it was brown. No idea where this came from. Second, there were not chips of the salted beef, but rather crumbles of what appeared to be ground beef, similar to what one would find in a soft taco from Taco Bell. There should be no “third”, since I what I’ve just described already is far beyond what anyone would consider creamed chipped beef, but here’s your third: IT TASTED LIKE BALLS. Literally. Well, I can’t say “literally”, since I’ve never tasted balls (honestly). But I have smelled my balls many times – including several times today – and if I had to put that smell into food form, it would taste (and perhaps even look) like this CCB from Doughboys.
I fear that if I write much more about this experience my body will seize up and my eyes will cross because of all the rage. Suffice it to say, the rest of the experience was not pleasant. I tried to salvage the afternoon by perhaps buying some cake to take home, but the overwhelming condescension pouring out of the flamingly homosexual waiter/actor/hipster because I was overweight and unironically wearing a pub crawl t-shirt was too much to bear, so I paid the check and left. Adding insult to injury, I nearly shit myself on the drive home (Note to self: Some necessary purchases for the car now that we’re driving all the time – toilet paper; extra boxers and pants; firecrackers to throw at other drivers; towels to catch ejaculate on that long stretch along Aviation where average speed is 3mph).
So my CCB experience, like most of my experiences here in LA, was a spectacular failure. Also like most of my experiences here in LA, it involved a lot of traffic, a long drive, something that made me nearly shit myself, and a gay man who’s mad at me because I’m chubby and/or dress poorly.
Well, at least life out here is predictable.
