Ballpark Food

On one recent perfect September evening, a capacity crowd filled Boston's Fenway Park to watch a tense, tight game against the Los Angeles Anaheim Angels. The baseball was good, capped by an incandescent "Big Papi" Ortiz homer at the bottom of the 9th.

"Incandescent" would be the wrong adjective for the stadium's food. But there's still something magical about sitting in the grandstand and sinking your teeth into a tube of lukewarm processed meat as the roar of the hometown crowd rebounds through the crisp fall air.

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The most remarkable thing about ballpark food isn't its actual quality (or lack thereof); it's that the atmosphere of a real baseball game can work such transformative magic on the snacks you pay dearly to enjoy. Food that would prompt you to take your dog to the vet if he wolfed it down at home is transformed into exciting entrees, and the culinary lowlights are quickly forgotten as the next vendor pushes his way up the aisle.

Every item has its own appeal, or lack thereof. So rather than a blanket review of ballpark food in general, you're getting a review a la carte.

Polish or Italian Sausage: Very easy to forget which is which. One is darker colored, and somewhat more savory looking. Both are slathered in onions, relish, ketchup and mustard, and they went down quickly despite being only slightly warmer than room temperature.

Impact of "ballpark atmosphere" secret ingredient: Hard to gauge. They did seem extra delicious, but a decent, condiment-covered sausage is good eats just about anywhere.

Verdict: Could've been heated, but basically delicious.

Ate: 100 percent of both.

Fried Dough: What drunken six-year-old came up with this stuff? A miserable lump of flour-based batter, only partially concealed by a drift of powdered sugar. Delicious in theory, excruciating in practice.

Ballpark impact: Strangely, close to nil. Probably because fried dough is a standard at just about every outdoor event in Boston, excluding most funerals.

Verdict: Briefly fun and terrible, and then very terrible, and then unpleasant to even look at. Wound up stored and forgotten under the seat.

Ate: 35 percent

Blue cotton candy: "Pink or blue?!" shouted the vendor. The wry expression on his face suggested that perhaps saying "blue" was a mistake — a real man would have happily taken the pink cotton candy that he was initially ready to chuck. Choosing "blue" just tips your hand — gender insecurity!

Far from being an ephemeral cloud of spun sugar, Fenway's cotton candy is packed snugly into a 16 oz. plastic cup, and must be excavated rather than plucked leisurely. But like all cotton candy, it's nothing but sugar with a hint of gritty "what is that, oh well"-ness.

Ballpark impact: Massive. This stuff would be inedible anywhere else. Festival atmosphere makes it seem appropriate and fun.

Verdict: Consistently unpleasant yet very sweet.

Ate: 100 percent.

Swirl Softserve: Referring to this cold, vaguely sweet mystery compound as "ice cream" is an insult to Holsteins, farmers and actual ice cream shops everywhere. Still, it's cold, and kind of goes with the fried dough. Interesting to note that it was impossible to discern the "vanilla" and "chocolate" flavors with eyes closed. Swirl, therefore, had a solely visual impact.

Ballpark impact: Big. It's easy to space out as batters ding foul after foul into the stands, slowly packing your mouth with spoonful after spoonful of this ersatz dairy treat.

Verdict: At the bottom of the frozen dessert ladder. Still pretty good.

Ate: 100 percent.

Giant Souvenir Coke: You're on the horns of a dilemma when you order a Coke at Fenway Park. Do you order a tiny 20 oz. coke — and forgo the Boston Red Sox souvenir cup? Or do you get the thirst-quenching 32 oz. cup with the super 3-D Red Sox logo and holographic World Series Pennant/team photo flip-flop image for a mere $5.50?

Naturally, you get the hologram cup. Sweet!

Ballpark impact: Coke is always the pause that refreshes. Still, in another setting, 12 oz. would have probably sufficed.

Verdict: Thirst quenching.

Drank: 40 percent.

"Cheese" Nachos: The nachos are de rigeur white corn Tostitos — incomprehensibly salty and utterly acceptable vehicles for whatever unhealthy topping you might have at hand.

In this case, the topping is a hot, slimy pudding of yellow congealed vegetable oil. Er... "cheese."

Ballpark impact: Minimal. The high salt content of the chips would compel their consumption in a four-star restaurant. And as long as you're eating chips, you may as well put some of the yellow stuff on them... It's there, right?

Verdict: Makes diners feel guilty about themselves.

Ate: All the nachos. 55 percent of the cheese.

All this raises an interesting question: If genuinely wholesome and delicious food were served at a ballpark, would it be even more delicious because of the surroundings? Or would it suffer due to the distracting surroundings?

While haute cuisine may be on the march at other parks, it seems unlike to penetrate Fenway anytime soon. Three cheers for tradition!

— James Norton (jim@flakmag.com)