County Fair upholds tradition through food selection

Tucked in the far eastern reaches of Los Angeles County, behind a water reserve, golf course and park, lies an expansive parking lot. To park here you’ll have to shell out somewhere in between $10 and $25. Why? Because it’s the LA County Fair.

A tradition that began in 1922, the LA County Fair boasts the reputation of being the largest fair in the nation.

One month long, the fair offers Angelenos a chance to pay a lot of money to drink beer out of plastic cups and, more importantly, clog their arteries.

Countless families go through the long, slow crawl towards the fairgrounds like a diesel-scented funeral procession, toward carnival games and chocolate-covered bacon. Even at the end of a traditional summer, inner California has absolutely unforgiving, excruciating heat — and Indian fry bread slathered in butter seems to be the only cure.

Upon entering, fairgoers walk by neat rows of tarp-covered concession booths and brightly colored rides; the occasional interior pavilion sponsored by Toyota might offer respite with fans, mist and some quasi-educational, corporate, feel-good show, but most remain sticky and restless as they crawl through the first rows of advertisements.

I had expected, per my kindergarten curriculum, charming mom- and-pop booths with families selling watermelons fresh from the farm and aunties and uncles competing to make the most delicious pumpkin pies.

Instead, Angelenos wade through marketing first to see a replica Mystery Van, courtesy of Scooby Doo! The Mystery Begins.

The progression from cute kitsch to commercial spectacle mirrors the life of the area. LA County grew from an agricultural area to the center for mainstream entertainment in the world, and even innocent practices like an end-of-summer fair aren’t immune from the transition of changing tradition.

Those attracted to the yearly extravaganza compose a dizzying blur of stroller-pushing teenagers, barbed-wire tattoos, chunky highlights and acrylic nails. You know how politicians aim for middle America? Well, welcome to the forgotten middle Los Angeles. And there are droves of them swirling around different booths, entertaining hot tub salesmen as they sniff around for some fried frog legs.

The true tradition behind all the corporate tie-ins, however, is the field of food. Throughout the grounds, there are hundreds of junk food oases in the commercial desert. Sure, there are plenty of brand names selling hot dogs on sticks and even a giant inflatable king of tacos, but the most prominent features divide themselves into two fascinating simple categories: meat and fried.

I don’t eat the former, but I absorbed the burning flesh through osmosis. Every 10 feet stands a mighty shrine to glowing, glistening charred ribs, roasted turkey legs and smoked brisket. Giant, blackened grills held rows and rows of dissected animal chunks waiting for some eager spectator to tear it apart with some hot sauce.

The pictures certainly were encouraging; giant signs with grisly close-ups of dripping burgers looked like off-the-strip Las Vegas smut billboards that advertised both naked ladies and shrimp cocktail buffets on the same graphic.

And, in traditional fair fare, there’s fried stuff.

The chow casualties include dill pickles, fries with marshmallow cream, bread, Twinkies, White Castle burgers, cheese, Oreos and avocados… These brave snacks face the high temperature bubbling oil and go straight into the mouths — and arteries — of gluttonous Angelenos.

Feeling particularly daring, I decided to limit myself to three delights from the garden of evil: garlic fries, avocados and four Oreos.

The garlic fries were a comfortable start; crisp, steaming potatoes smothered in roasted, heady garlic punctuated with lovely salt and fresh green parsley. Ketchup added a welcome, familiar acidity — but it didn’t mask the fear I had for the next two courses.

Next were the Oreos, which, without Crisco and batter, are fine desserts. The fair version looked suspicious: Four eerily round golden brown disks resembling UFOs (unidentified fried objects, if you will) swam in a viscous pool of chocolate sauce, powdered sugar and grease.

Gambling with my gallbladder and cursing my lack of heartburn medicine, I took a bite.

“Beautiful” was the first word I thought of. A flaky, buttery crust gave way to a crumbling corn syrup, melodious center, gooey with heat and hedonism. Each bite was one sin closer to hell.

The avocado was more unholy: The green fruit already lends itself to a rich, creamy texture, but when cut into chunks and made into tempura, it transforms from decadent, refreshing salad topping to sketchy truck stop bar food, which only becomes palatable with a generous squeeze of ranch dressing. I hate ranch dressing, but for some reason, two crimes make delicious.

I don’t think I have the guts, or the seven bucks, to try deep fried dill pickles any time soon, but we’ll see — there’s always next year. It’s a tradition after all.

Clare Sayas is a junior majoring in public relations. Her column, “Lost & Found,” runs Thursdays.