When I was a kid, I was sure there was a “someone” who was an “everyone.” If a certain group of us was sitting around, someone might walk in and say, “Hey, where’s everyone?” If there was another group of the same size, that person might walk in and say, “Hey, everyone.” Who’s “everyone”? Who’s the one person whose presence means that nothing, or no one, is missing?
I was reminded of this recently when using a jar of everything seasoning. In London, we’re still a step or two behind New York in terms of bagels, but the popularity of a few recent bakeries made me think everyone knew what “everything” blend was. Chatting with London friends, though, I saw that the lack of clarity was clear.
Recipe: Chopped Salad With Everything Bagel Croutons
For those who don’t know, “everything” is actually well prescribed and rarely goes beyond five things: sesame seeds, poppy seeds, flaked sea salt, garlic or onion flakes or both. Back when bagel bakeries were really taking off in the 1970s and early 1980s in New York, these were each individual toppings. It was poppy or sesame, garlic or onion. The idea to mix them all together — to have one bagel with “everything” on it — is claimed by a few different people, but the name most often cited is David Gussin’s. Around 1980, a young Gussin was at work, cleaning out the ovens at a bagel shop in Queens, N.Y. Rather than throwing away all the seasonings that had fallen to the bottom, he collected them and piled them all onto a bagel. The “everything” bagel — everything Gussin had, crucially, not “anything” that anyone cares to think of — was born.
When it comes to spice blends, it’s not just everything seasoning that might confound. Take ras el hanout, for example, the North African spice mix I love to cook with. Although I have a blend that I think of as being ras el hanout, a mix of black pepper, cumin, coriander, ginger, allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, maybe some turmeric and cayenne, everyone has a version of ras el hanout. In fact, the name translates to “head of the shop” or “top shelf,” and the mix is a combination of the spices that a particular shopkeeper or blender considers the best. (It can also differ greatly in makeup and number. On a trip to Morocco a decade ago, I met a market-stall owner who boasted more than 50 spices in his mix.)
Egyptian dukkah, Japanese furikake, Italian pesto: We might all have a pretty clear idea in our minds as to what they taste like, but their ingredients are by no means set in stone. Their names aren’t even nouns, but verbs. Dukkah means “to crush.” Furikake means “to sprinkle.” Pesto means “to pound.” Different versions have similarities — the sesame and seaweed in the furikake; the coriander seeds and hazelnuts in the dukkah; the combination of a fresh herb and one or another nut in a pesto — but in theory, there’s a lot more “everything” that can go in all these things.
A beloved seasoning makes its way from bagel to salad.
Thinking of bagels and “everything,” I find it’s impossible not to mention the film “Everything Everywhere All at Once” and its everything-bagel scene. In it, Evelyn, the protagonist, watches as her daughter’s alter ego, Jobu Tupaki, describes putting truly everything on a bagel: “All my hopes and dreams, my old report cards, every breed of dog, every last personal ad on Craigslist.” I wondered, perhaps too literally for a film set in the metaverse, if she would have found greater satisfaction had she just stuck to the time-honored sesame seeds, poppy seeds and salt. Even in the metaverse, some rules should be followed.
Back in London, I made what I thought of as a simple chopped salad. In truth, I was, like Gussin, using everything I had at the bottom of my fridge. I understood that I couldn’t call this “everything’’ salad, so chopped salad it became. A sprinkle of everything spice graced the croutons.
At this beautiful time of the year, when ingredients are so fresh and refreshing, often ripe and at their very best, we all officially have free rein to make our own “everything” chopped salad. Change the adjective or the style, if need be. Classic, dreamy, crunchy, fresh: They all work well. Call it “Aunt Susan’s” if you like, or “Jobu Tupaki’s.” Quite frankly, anything goes.
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