The Flavor of Home


Is there a way for the big multinationals to instill regional-style loyalty into products created for the masses?

NPR commentator Frank Deford recently reminisced about the voice of his (and my!) hometown baseball team announcer, Chuck Thompson. Thompson’s voice was, literally, the sound of the Baltimore Orioles when we came of age. He recently passed away at 83 and Deford was honoring his career.

That radio segment swept me back in time. Sports may be at the center of Frank Deford’s world, but food is at the center of mine. Because I live in California, many of the tastes of my hometown, Baltimore, are gone to me. But like Chuck Thompson, they’re not forgotten.

My mother and grandmother were devoted fans of Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews, a more refined alternative to the Snickers bar. I still seek them out when I go back to Baltimore. Just one of the small dark chocolate bars is all I need to ground myself geographically and historically. The smell of unmentionable pork parts would infiltrate our house during weekend mornings as my father fried up thick slabs of Scrapple, a mid-Atlantic poor relation to Spam. But nothing was more beloved in my household than Grandma Utz’s potato chips. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized why I couldn’t find another brand of potato chips with that same, familiar flavor and crunch. No one else but Grandma Utz fries their potato chips in lard.

I lament that regional brands now enjoy far less market share than their national competitors. Is there a way for the big multinationals to instill this kind of loyalty into products created for the masses? I think there is.

Once again, I find myself pleading with food companies to create targeted products that appeal deeply to one loyal group of consumers. A “vanilla” product that 1 million consumers purchase once a year is just as valid as a product that 200,000 people buy five times a year. I can’t tell you the last time I was given a project brief from the likes of Kraft, Nestle, ConAgra, or Unilever to create a targeted, high-usage product for a narrow slice of the population. It’s always about targeting the broadest swath of population possible.

There’s nothing I lament more than the state of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Years ago, it was saturated with the aroma of spice. The old McCormick plant would belch a sort of aromatic spice cloud that permeated my Baltimore with the scent of still-cooking food. There wasn’t one single spice that stood out; it was more of a muddled combination that smelled, to me, like Baltimore. Years ago the McCormick facility was moved out to Hunt Valley and the Inner Harbor now flaunts clear, crisp, unscented air. When I visit downtown I can’t help but feel like something’s missing. I miss the flavor of home.

If we’re all eating the same thing regardless of where we grow up, the sweet smell of home may someday be a completely meaningless concept.

Posted: Tue - March 22, 2005 at 05:11 PM        

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