Instead of Peanuts and Cracker Jack, It’s Tacos, Bratwurst

There is a revolution in ballpark food, and I spent Sunday afternoon down in the trenches, investigating.

While the Angels were raising their team batting average several points at the expense of the Seattle Mariners, I raised my cholesterol level to around 300.

I don’t know if it’s possible to hit 400 in this modern age of ballpark food. You’d have to be selective--lay off tempting salads and not let any Polish sausages slip off the corner of your plate.

And you’d have to avoid Candlestick Park, where the people who feed the San Francisco Giants’ fans have gone to a new cuisine, featuring yogurt, meatless hot dogs, salads and mineral water.

This is a mistake, of course. Anyone who is smart enough to eat that well wouldn’t be a Giants fan.

Mineral water? What next? Fourth-inning tea break?

I wasn’t aware the Giants’ fans were such discerning diners. Based on their behavior at the ballpark, I figured a seven-course meal for a Giants fan was six beers, then eat the paper cups they came in.

But I digress. The Angels’ approach to new food is to expand on the junk theme, offer a greater variety than the ballpark staples of hot dogs, peanuts and nachos.

I opened Sunday with chicken tacos at the Mexican food stand, the Old El Paso Cantina, which is part of the “Food Fair” located in the lobby on the field level, behind home plate.

I give this stand high marks for ambiance. There were tiny serapes hanging on the wall, and a sombrero, creating a veritable festival atmosphere. But the food lacked authenticity, if not elasticity.

The taco shells were like the Dallas Cowboys defense--they bend but don’t break. They had the hardiness of cardboard, with none of the aroma or flavor.

The meat was overcooked, mysterious chicken chunks. I ate one taco and was tempted to take the other shell home for my dog as a chew toy, but then remembered that I don’t have a dog. Instead, I took the taco back to the stand and asked for my money back.

My full purchase price was cheerfully refunded. OK, it was refunded, with no forms to fill out and no angry glares from the chef.

I went away wiser and no poorer, a welcome bargain in any aspect of life. But I was still hungry.

The Cinnamon Shop beckoned. Generally I try to avoid sweets, but I have been told that the cinnamon rolls at Anaheim Stadium are chunks o’ heaven, light and luscious morsels of pastry.

My roll, unfortunately, was as light and as chewy as a brick of pine tar. It didn’t melt in my mouth, and I would think highly of its chances of survival in a ceramic kiln.

It was sticky, though. If Jay Howell had this stuff on his fingers, they’d have to pry the ball out of his hand with a crowbar. I stopped eating my roll when it occurred to me that if a chunk sticks in my esophagus the way it sticks on my fingers, I might never eat again.

Next was the pizza stand. The pizza looked decent, but they only had pepperoni, which I don’t eat.

“You can pick off the slices of pepperoni,” the woman behind the counter suggested.

I declined, having done that in the past and finding it leaves unsightly craters in one’s pizza, with the bare dough exposed.

Finally I struck pay dirt at the fish and chips stand. For $2 I got several large pieces of fried fish. I had to dig through huge wads of fried batter to get to the fish itself, but the effort was worth it. The fish is tasty, if only lukewarm.

I didn’t try the Sausage House--which features Italian sausage, grilled bratwurst, grilled knackwurst and smoked Polish sausage--because life is too short.

And I didn’t make it to the Potato Hut, where baked potatoes are served with a variety of toppings. I try to eat right, and I love baked potatoes, but there is something basically un-American about going to a baseball game and eating a potato topped with broccoli.

I remember with fondness a simpler, more innocent time when, for a young boy, the ballpark was a safe haven from broccoli and baked potatoes. The Angels may be alienating millions of kids, while satisfying a relative handful of bad potato freaks.

My only other complaint is that the Food Fair closes too soon, immediately after the game, denying fans a shot at the traditional one bratwurst for the road.

By game’s end I had decided to try the pizza anyway, even if it meant being a pepperoni plucker, but the ovens were shut down for the night. I guess the Angels don’t want to spoil the appetites of all the fans who would be rushing home to mom’s big Sunday dinner.

In summation, I salute the Angels’ efforts to cater to the increasingly varied and sophisticated palate of the modern baseball fan, even if there are a few kinks to be worked out of the taco shells and cinnamon rolls.

My only real beef is with the napkins. Call me superstitious, but I consider it bad luck to eat in a place where the paper napkins are imprinted with an advertisement, complete with 800 phone number, for a hospital.