Cutting Crust from the Equation

Have you ever wondered if there was a way to wad up all the toppings on a pizza into a ball, pile it onto the tiniest of crackers, and shove that all in your mouth? No, that's disgusting and weird, you say. Mmmm delicious food ball, I say. Welcome, my friends, to my lifelong neurotic phobia of crusts. (And yes, if the Tracy Jordan Meat Machine was ever a real thing, I would be the first to buy ten.)

If I were to write a Crust Manifesto, my definition of crust would go something like this.
Crust /krust/
noun
1. The least delicious part of a food item
2. That portion of a food item which serves as a vehicle to transport more delicious parts into your mouth
3. Ingredients in any dish that take up belly space, which could be filled by more delicious parts of the dish
4. Appropriator of chewing effort
syn: culinary chicanery

As a rule, I will eat only as much crust as I need to transport and enhance the part of the food I find to be most delicious, leaving the rest as a disastrous canvas of mutilated crust carnage on my plate.

This isn't just a starch issue. This is an efficiency issue. I have a limited amount of space in my belly and I want to make sure I use as many hours as I have on this earth to fill it with what I love most. So piles of steamed rice with just a dollop of stir-fry on top is an assault on my face-stuffing sensibilities. Crust can also be counter-intuitive. The crunchy outside of the pancake, to me, is more delicious than the soggy inside. If I have limited time and space, I will eat the outer ring and leave the inside "crust" of pancake.

Imagine my delight when I rediscovered a cheese that, for me, serves the purpose of eliminating the bread from a grilled cheese sandwich.

Not only is it delicious, but it also
looks like bacon. 

If I were to name favorite cuisines, Greek/Mediterranean would definitely make the top three. In college, when my roommates and I would dine at our favorite Greek restaurant, everyone would order sensible meals. Salads. Gyros. Seafood. I, however, would feast on one thing and one thing only. A slab of cheese set ablaze by flambe before my eyes.

At the time Saganaki, as the dish is called, was awesome for two simple reasons. One, cheese. Two, fireball. Not until recently when I brought home a piece of Idaho Golden Greek Grillin Cheese by Ballard Family Farms -- a tribute to Greek Halloumi cheese -- did I realize the true beauty of this style of cheese. Halloumi and other Greek grilling cheeses are designed for pan-searing until a thin browned crispy film forms a shell around it. On the interior, the cheese is heated to a gooey, stretchy perfection. It's a perfect recreation of the flavor profile in a grilled cheese sandwich, but with all cheese.

I look down at my crust-less dairy dinner, which I have supplemented with broccoli and hummus (I've learned a lot since college: You need vegetables. Pop-Tarts are not a fruit), and I realize how much I've missed this cheese.

Setting aside my delight that the role of bread has been outsourced to the cheese itself, there is a lot for the general ("normal") population to like about grilling cheeses. You don't get the perfect outer layer of salty crunch from pan-searing just any cheese. Try that with a block of cheddar. You'll have a melty, charred grease fire on your hands. If you need a firm, salty cheese to add to a warm dish without causing a runny mess, here's Halloumi to the rescue. It's like the paneer of the Mediterranean. It stays true to its form, and can even bring a little crunch to the party.

Enjoy Halloumi in all the normal and socially acceptable culinary modes you desire. As for me, I have rediscovered that cheese is the new bread.