Why Did I Eat This? Buffalo Wild Wings

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot. And a Red Robin. And a Buffalo Wild Wings. And some self-service frozen yogurt shop that will be closed in six to nine months. And a PetValu.

But most importantly, a Buffalo Wild Wings, or B Dubs, as it is lazily shortened (because fuck syllables). For some, this is much more of a paradise than the empty field full of snakes and broken bottles (and at one time, deer probably, who are now displaced and confused and inevitably roadkill) it replaced. For me, it was a step just below adequate until the diarrhea kicked in later that evening and lasted most of the day Sunday and I contemplated arson. I don't understand how we as humans choose convenience over intestinal discomfort more often than not. I suppose it's easy to choose the path of excess when it's paved with five thousand times the recommended daily allowance of sodium. Wash it all down with a beer to forget that you're in the suburbs, then yes, it is paradise; a temporary vacation where you're given a "Guest Experience Captain" who will bring you unlimited samples of B Dubs' signature sauces and/or anything on draft (may I please have 100 samples of Miller Lite?).

The disappointing truth is that while you're dying to go there (whether ironically or not), the reason you want do is because of their endless commercials and the fact that it's more socially acceptable than Hooters. Aside from the glut of TVs in the place, it's no different than any other chain.

At least that was my experience. Our server was bummed that we only ordered a sampler platter and a snack size order of bone-in wings (plus two kids' meals), which were undersauced and just a touch past cooked. Raw chicken texture isn't my favorite. The boneless wings that were included in the platter were all bread and also devoid of sauce. The nachos were soggy, topped with mealy tomatoes and a congealed off-yellow queso. The mozzarella sticks held up, but you've got much bigger problems if you're fucking up mozzarella sticks.

Although I wasn't happy paying $60 for 48 hours' worth of intestinal discomfort, there's a 100% chance I'll go again because I hate myself. Plus, I didn't get my nifty cardboard hat this time, so they owe me that (I may also try out the unlimited beer sample scheme). If you can avoid being swayed by their marketing and that stupid winged buffalo logo, you're a better person than I. If not, stick to mozzarella sticks if you get suckered into going. Buen provecho.

And the Award for Shittiest Meal of 2015 Goes to...

Maybe it's the fact that we decided to go out for dinner on Monday. Maybe this past Monday was, in general, one of those Mondays that gives Mondays a bad rap. Or maybe, just maybe, the Manayunk Brewing Co. has decided to mail it in with their food now that their beer is a level above your ambitious neighbor's "Dave-Brau."

At the risk of sounding like an insufferable Yelper, I'm going to bitch and moan for a few paragraphs in order to get this meal off my chest. Before I launch headlong into it, I will say that the service was great, albeit slow.

But the food was an absolute atrocity.

No sushi on Mondays, I get it. My daughter, not so much. Her reluctant second choice, apples drizzled with caramel for dinner. Three apple slices, two strawberry halves, six bucks, and none of it eaten.

Mrs. Gastro and I (since there was no sushi) decided to split fish tacos and artichoke dip. No fish tacos. Our reluctant second choice, a veggie burger that was allegedly house made. The provolone cheese and mayo both failed to mask the taste of freezer burn. The artichoke dip was another loser. Ten bucks for a baby handful of stale chips and a ramekin of brown goo.

The only bright spot on the table (which was covered in outdoor filth and pollen) was my son's chicken fingers. Unfortunately, he's not real big on sharing these days.

At the end of it, we dropped 70 bucks and got in a big fight. Two days later, I'm still depressed and angry. I guess the moral here is "Don't go out on Mondays, but if you do, get the chicken fingers. And now, a stupid Dos Equis meme to support this point. Buen provecho.

Eat Like a Top Chef Judge: Nick Elmi's Laurel

As Seen on TV. Four of Elmi's Seven Course Tasting Menu

After 16 weeks spent writing, singing, and spoken word-ing about the guy (plus another 8 weeks until we could get a table), Mrs. Gastro and I finally got to taste Nicholas Elmi's food.

There are words, but I can't find them/use them without sounding like a starfucker. Besides, the critics have already set the tone (here, here, and here). Suffice to say that the meal exceeded expectations, especially the ricotta gnocchi, which rested dangerously atop that precarious foundation of overhype until I found myself licking the empty bowl and wishing for a real-life instant replay button to relive each bite. Our server told us that some people order a second bowl for dessert, but since we were there on a Friday, only the seven course tasting was available (some food for thought when making reservations).

What you need to know if you want to go:
1. According to Elmi himself (because he runs your food and says 'hi' and makes you feel all cool because he was on national TV and said "jawn" while on national TV and also won Top Chef), they're booked until August, but don't let that deter you...
2. Because Elmi also says, "Everyone in the dining room has been waiting for this table for weeks or months, or they're willing to take the 10:40 seating on Tuesday. This is constantly on my mind and I make sure it's also on the mind of my staff. What they're eating in September should be exactly what you're eating now."
3. You may be tempted to "jump-hug" Nick. Do your best to suppress this urge. The dining room is too small.
4. Laurel is closed on Sundays and Mondays.

I'm hoping we can get back again someday, but for now the gnocchi (and the rest of the meal) will live in my dreams. Buen provecho.

Laurel Restaurant
1617 East Passyunk
Phila, PA 19148
$200 including coffee and tip. We brought our own wine.

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to Happy Hour

Dear Mr. XXXXXXX,
Thank you very much for reaching out to me regarding a recent comment I made on Foobooz about XXXXX.  It certainly came as a surprise considering that I changed my phone number not too long ago, but if my remarks warrant tracking me down, then yay me. Since I’m pretty sure that you and your management were the only people who actually bothered to read it, I’ll go ahead and post it here again for a bit more visibility:

“Have yet to have a positive experience there. Dirty glasses, stale nachos, always out of the one beer that I want on their draft list, and the staff is a bunch of jerks. The XXXXX boys need to keep a closer eye on this spot.”

The Worst $40.83 (Plus Tip) I Ever Spent

Philadelphians, feel free to chase me out of town with torches and pitchforks in hand after saying this, but I am disappointed with Chickie's & Pete's.  Don't get me wrong, a Big Gulp-sized order of fries sprinkled with a sneezeable (yes sneezeable, not sizeable) amount of Old Bay seasoning and served with American cheese sauce just seconds away from congealing into an undippable globule is great when you're watching one of our local teams break your heart.  But remove that context (along with the gallons of light beer), replace it with one screaming infant and an anomaly of a toddler who prefers vegetables instead of chicken fingers and fries (how the hell did that happen?), and you're left with food that is crappy at best.  It may have been voted the "Best Sports Bar in North America" by ESPN, and I may still want to drive home drunk from there after a long Sunday of football watching, but since I'm supposed to be writing about food, here's a quick breakdown of the crap we ate last night:

1) Crab Fries: They're just too damn thin and flimsy, especially when the cheese sauce hardens.  Furthermore, it's kind of hard to eat them when you're holding a toddler.  My sincerest apologies to my son for the Old Bay fingerprints on the onesie.
2) Chickie's Cutlets: Standard frozen and boxed chicken fingers.  How they can get away with calling them "cutlets" is beyond me.
3) Signature Salad: Bagged romaine topped with Old Bay croutons and crab fries.  A real pile of shit.
4) Cheeseburger: Pre-formed patty, terrible burger-to-bun ratio, no toppings.
5) This last one's not about food.  I just thought I would mention that I was wearing sweats when this all went down.

You may be thinking, "Jackass, you're supposed to get the seafood when you're there," or you may have just stopped reading.  If you are still reading, it's obvious from the above list that much of the food at Chickie's & Pete's is pre-made and at the ready to get unsuspecting families like mine in and out the door and/or pump out food quickly to keep the drunks at bay.  Either way, not a great family or food destination, so save it for a night out with the boys, or leave the kids in the car.  Buen provecho.

Federal Freakin' Donuts is Worth the Early Long Lunch

I'm late to the party, but it's nowhere near finished.  In its third week of being open, the birds at Federal Donuts continue to fly out the door.  I showed up at 11:50 A.M.—ten minutes before chicken service is supposed to start—and I was already order number 35 and 36.  When I walked in, a small crowd leisurely waited for their chicken, each of us holding our golden post-it notes.  The good part about the wait is that you can have a coffee and a donut for an appetizer; the bad part is that you run the risk of spoiling your appetite.  This actually isn't a worry for a fat ass like me, but it's something to think about if you're one of those people who actually listens to their stomach.

Starting with a nutella-tehina-pomegranate donut and an iced coffee, it was immediately evident why the closing time on their website is listed as "'til it's gone."  The sugary sponge studded with sesame seeds begins with the heart smart tartness of pomegranate and ends with the richness of the chocolate-hazelnut spread I stole from Pat Keller's pantry in high school because it was so good.  Still waiting and still calm (because you're guaranteed a couple orders of chicken), the POS crashed, and this is where things got slightly hairy.  I had intended on using a debit card for my orders of harissa and chile-garlic chicken, but without modern technology, I was fucked.  Thankfully—and keep this in mind if you wind up in the same situation—there was an ATM at the beer distributor on Washington Avenue, a few short blocks away.  Clocking what was probably the fastest 1/4 mile I've ever ran, I made it back, and before even taking a bite of the chicken, this is where the place went from good to great.  Because of the computer turmoil (they will one day turn on us, as evidenced by this mishap), the staff was extremely apologetic, comping my coffee and throwing a couple donuts into my takeout bag.  Even if I made it all the way back to my office and the chicken sucked, this kind of service would make it worth returning again and again.  But that's not how the rest of my day transpired.  It was a lot more like this:

Tooth-chippingly crispy (a very good thing), spicy, and cooked flawlessly, I can't wait to have it again.  Buen provecho.

My Chefs Are Cooler Than Your Chefs: Philly's Four Contenders and Two Write-Ins for People's Best New Chef Award

Yesterday on The Feast, I put up a list of places to check out in order to make an informed vote in Food & Wine/Eatocracy "People's Best New Chef" award.  Four of the handsome heads above were nominated, and the The Feast Philly editors and I decided to write in a couple more candidates, Marcie Turney of Barbuzzo and Matt Levin of Adsum, two more of our hometown heroes whose names have recently been tattooed into your dome piece by the press.  Buen provecho.
Give these peeps some props by voting your face off here.

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Jason Goodman and Jeremy Lovitt of Goods Restaurant

When the world ends (which might be soon), I can say for a fact that Jason Goodman and Jeremy Lovitt will be among the few to manage the daunting task of recreating civilization.  Their Mad Max approach to sustainability not only allows them to make lemonade out of lemons, but helps them find the right lemons to use.  Case in point, Goods--their recently soft-opened food concept in Williamsburg, Brooklyn--began as an empty lot and an abandoned trailer (that they tracked down in upstate NY).  Two years later, they've transformed the two into a kitchen, bar, and outdoor eating/drinking spot.  Some of the neater details: the fully custom kitchen is inside a 1946 Spartan, the outdoor flooring will be repurposed wood from Coney Island's boardwalk,and the menu--created by chef Alex McCrery--will feature beef sourced from Pat LaFrieda, hot dogs made with grass-fed beef, house made pickles, and beignets made to order; quite possibly the freshest donut you'll ever eat.  I went with a Goods burger and curly fries.  The loosely packed ground beef made for a surprisingly juicy burger for what I'm told is an 85/15 blend.  Topped with local cheddar, caramelized onions, and served on a potato roll, I made a mess of myself eating it, but it was too delicious to put down and bother with napkins.  And the curly fries.  It was amazing to see these on the menu, not only because hand cut fries aren't my favorite, but because I haven't had them in years, and they're really fucking good.  While I ate my face off, Jason took time out of his busy schedule to catch up with me about the project, about 3rd Ward, and plans for the future.  It's a bit long, but we hadn't caught up for while.  Regardless, it's an excellent opportunity to deconstruct the synapses of an artist who has launched himself, along with his business partner Jeremy, head first (and nuts on the table) into the role of being an entrepreneur, and a successful one at that.

Why Yes, that IS a Hamburger Patty Sandwiched between Two Sandwiches

It's called the LOVE burger, which I am assuming is an acronym for "Life's Over Very Early." From top to bottom, a grilled cheese sandwich, special sauce, a medium rare patty, and another grilled cheese sandwich. I didn't bother with the lettuce leaf, slice of tomato, and onion.  While the patty was delicious, the "buns" were not. One was burnt, and both were straight up bland (Kraft singles are great for their melty-ness, but not much else).  On the side, I opted for jalapeño fries, which were nothing more than regular French fries tossed with fried jalapeños.  They would have been better executed had they been able to get the peppers to stick to the potatoes, but the flavor was great nonetheless.  If you've ever had jalapeño-flavored Dirty chips, Deli chips, or Kettle chips, imagine that flavor on a McDonald's French fry. Seemingly, we now live in an era of throwing ideas at the wall and using the power of prayer--or the more secular, buzz--to make them stick.  This one doesn't stick to the wall, but it will certainly provide a good base for Philly Beer Week's Opening Tap tonight.  Buen provecho.

Frog Burger is located in front of the Franklin Institute at 220 N. 20th St. Look for the big tent on the lawn next to the bi-plane sculpture.  In addition to the LOVE burger, they've got regular burgers, crab rolls, hot dogs, and fries.The LOVE burger, fries, and an Arnold Palmer set me back $16. More coverage and full menu here.

Field Trip: McCrady's, Charleston, SC

There is a distinct possibility that Sean Brock, executive chef of McCrady's in Charleston, SC, may have stumbled into a time machine fashioned by Eli Whitney somewhere around the turn of the century.  Better yet (and capitalizing on recent media trends), perhaps he is a vampire.  That might explain the fact that he never sleeps, which I am guessing there isn't much time to do so as he tackles the dual role of executive chef and gentleman farmer.  Or quite simply, farm-to-table was the norm for his rural upbringing.  Whatever the case may be, he is both an old soul and an innovator.  In the soft-spoken monologue above, he exudes passion for food, stresses the importance of creating a sense of place, and outlines some of his efforts to undo more than a century of agribusiness food fuck-ups.



Upstairs, where I drank way too many bourbon and cola cocktails, I got the pulse on the Charleston wedding scene from Kiah Stone, who was also pivotal in getting me an audience with Mr. Brock (and more importantly, rattling off his many accolades and food philosophy before I sat with him).

Prior to the interview phase of the evening, I ate what could have easily been my last meal. Passed h'ors d'oeuvres included fried green tomatoes--a single bite of brittle cornmeal surrounding tart and juicy flesh--and crab cakes that posessed a subtle crunch and delicate meatiness (that's a good thing).

As an amuse, a perfectly cooked scallop presented with oyster mushrooms (I think) and asparagus (maybe a bit more than an amuse).

For the first course, a charred marshmallow slowly melted into a rustically textured sweet potato soup.

The main course was a standard filet mignon that was anything but. It was perfectly executed, and the flavor of the beef needed little more than salt and pepper.

For dessert, a duo of chocolate mousse cake and something that everyone was calling, "oh my god, did you try the banana cake?" It was perfection from start to finish, and I'll be shocked if Mr. Brock doesn't take home the Beard award in the coming weeks. Given the time and resource, I would go back to Charleston just to eat here. If your travels take you to the dirty south, I recommend you do the same. Buen provecho.

McCrady's is located at 2 Unity Alley in Charleston, SC. All pertinent info regarding reservations, etc. can be found on their website  Some tooling around on the internet helped me locate Sean Brock's blog as well. Much props to both Kiah Stone and Sean Brock for taking the time to talk to me.

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Delicatessen's Michael Spector

Michael Spector surveys his deli and sighs.  "My mother and grandmother used to bring me to places like this for Saturday lunches, usually after a bit of shopping."  This is something I know absolutely nothing about, but it's one of those memories that even a lobotomy couldn't erase.  So vivid, and so formative.  Granted, I didn't meet my first Jew until high school, so it's not like I would know about such things.  But it's a jump-off point, an homage to the old school with a progressive bent, call it Deli 2.0.  Being the diplomat he is, Spector's ultimate goal is to have a deli rooted in tradition that also offers something for everyone.  Judging by the extensive menu (thanks, Meal Ticket), he's off to a great start.  There are traditional offerings such as matzo ball soup and house-smoked pastrami, as well as offerings such as Bubby's Kitchen Sink Pho (rice noodles in matzo ball soup with assorted meats and whatever else is lying around in the kitchen) and a Tuxedo Dog (cheese-stuffed and bacon-wrapped Hebrew National).  Another goal of Spector's is to have fun, and to do so, Delicatessen is currently running a sandwich naming contest on their Facebook page.  Leave your idea on the fan page, and whoever gets the most comments will be able to eat their creation for free the entire month of May.  Next month, they are running a funniest Bar/Bat Mitzvah photo contest.  Clearly, nobody is taking themselves too seriously here (that's a good thing).

So how's the food?  I ordered "Mom Mom's Tuna Fish Salad Melt" and Pastrami Waffle Fries, more than enough for even the likes of me.  The tuna melt was served open-faced on challa bread, with muenster cheese and sliced tomato.  Latkes were served on the side, one of many items you can order as an accompaniment.  The tuna salad was excellently balanced.  It was neither gloppy nor dry, and there was enough celery to add a subtle crunch without overstepping its boundaries.  The latkes were thin and crisp, the grease held in suspension so you got the flavor without the sogginess.  The pastrami waffle fries--well, let's just say that I'm not too proud of how I handled myself after the first bite.  A decadent mess of potatoes, swiss cheese, russian dressing, cole slaw, and pastrami, I couldn't put my fork down.  The pastrami was peppery and chewy and meaty, and I know this may sound disgusting, but it was so good that I might not floss for a few days in the hopes that some of it sneaks out from in between my teeth.  Failing, that, I'll just have to return, and soon.  For drinks, Delicatessen offers micro-brewed sodas from Multi-Flow, a local brand of fizz sweetened with real cane sugar, the requisite Dr. Brown's sodas, and La Colombe coffee.

Spector still considers Delicatessen very much a work in progress.  Although he's been in the game for a number of years, this is his first role as proprietor. He says that right now, there is more that he doesn't know than what he does.  But he's an eager student, constantly looking for ways to improve product and service.  Personally, I think Delicatessen is off to a great start, and not just because I ate for free because we are old friends.  Being there during the lunch rush, I watched a cohesive kitchen and waitstaff expertly handle a full house, including a stroller brigade and an old lady with too much money and time on her hands.  My only recommendation besides getting there as soon as you can?  Go hungry.  Very hungry.  Buen provecho.

Delicatessen is located at 703 Chestnut St. in Philadelphia.  They are open M-F from 8am to 4pm, and Sa-Su from 9am-4pm.  For takeout, call 215-923-4560.  I ate for free, but you can get nice and full for around $12-$15 plus tip. More photos here.

M'm M'm Good

All parenthood and no dining out makes Fidel a dull boy.  Thankfully, I've been blessed with a very portable daughter.  Whether or not this spells doom for her teenage years, I can't say, but for now, she is more laid back than a Jamaican in Amsterdam, and that's a beautiful thing when it comes to date night with no babysitter.  Sometimes you just need someone else to pour the wine and cook the food, so we strapped Baby Gastro in the carseat, packed up the sweet diaper backpack, and headed to Campbell's Place for said services this past Friday.

Located at roughly the midpoint of Chestnut Hill's stretch of Germantown Avenue, it's great for both old money and new money (and in our case, no money) Northwest Philadelphians.  The menu reflects the clients, running the spectrum from a burger with your choice of toppings to filet mignon with truffled mashed potatoes.  In between, pub standards such as fish and chips, and a few departures, notably, guava glazed ribs, and a veggie burger that could make me quit meat (well, that might be a bit dramatic). 

Following our noses, we started with a plate of cornmeal dusted calamari.  Fried anything is good, but when it comes to calamari, it's a tad more difficult.  Cook it too long and you find yourself chewing on an assortment of novelty squid pencil erasers.  This was not the case for what came out.  After the initial crunch of cornmeal, each bite melted in my mouth.  There wasn't even a need for the accompanying marinara.

For entrees, we ordered his and hers burgers, mine being a Paulie burger with bacon and bleu cheese, Mrs. Gastro's being a veggie burger.  The his burger, while cooked to my liking, had the opulence one associates with a steak dinner.  A severe helping of blue cheese and bacon--usually something I would gobble up (and I did anyway)--punished the rest of the plate.  To make matters worse, the handful of light-refracting salt crystals strewn all over the fries made my tongue feel like an old nautical rope.  I had to order a second beer to fend off the impending dehydration.  On the other side of the table, however, we found a true gem.  The hers burger is without a doubt the best interpretation of a veggie burger I have ever tasted.  Composed of Indian flavors, it was like eating a samosa on a bun.  Texturally (and just like magic), the makeup of curry rice and vegetables was such that it didn't crumble into a mushy mess that one typically associates with non-processed and frozen veggie burgers.  It was served with a creamy yogurt dill sauce that was not quite as thin as a raita, so it was perfect for dipping both sandwich and fries.

No dessert this time around, but we will be back for sure, undoubtedly to eat this veggie burger of veggie burgers.  The atmosphere is casual and fun, albeit a bit cramped, and the popularity of the place makes it moreso.  The establishment is long and narrow, and I would argue that the best seats in the house are at the bar (hard to sit there with a baby, though).  The hostess service was very accommodating, but our waitress seemed annoyed.  She wasn't exactly a jerk, but she wasn't very nice, either.  If you find yourself in Chestnut Hill and you've already had the Schmitter, grab a table at Campbell's Place and see what makes it so m'm m'm good.*  Buen provecho.

Campbell's Place is located at 8337 Germantown Avenue in Chestnut Hill (that's in Northwest Philly).  We got full and drunk for $55 including tip.  Full disclosure: I have a tall and handsome friend that introduced me to the owners, but they didn't remember who I was when we were there.

*I really hope Campbell's Soup doesn't sue me.

Peeing into an Ocean of Hype

Back in July, I sat down to a gratis meal at PYT. Soft open or no, free or paid (come to think of it, I threw down a $20 tip), I was blown away. Then, in September, Trey Popp made me feel guilty for giving props, thinking perhaps that the only reason I didn't find the burger marginally better than an Angus Third Pounder was because it was free. I don't know the guy from Adam, and a single post shoudn't make you a villain, but it's hard not to take it personal, especially after hearing the deafening rally cry put forth by the dude behind Phoodie.info. I wasn't able to shake his hand at last night's Social Media Club meeting, but it was like watching a white Che Guevara. If I had a gun in my hand, it would have been fired in the air, if not at someone else. But this isn't the point of this post. What we need to discuss is that for the second time in as many visits, PYT delivered the goods once again.

Wading through the endless @tommyup tweets and retweets, the good reviews and the bad, I'm reminded of 2001, when there was a group of five trust fund shitheads who gave sliced bread a run for its money, sailing the tradewinds of hype until they wound up marooned on an island of haters. Oh yes, The Strokes were munched up into bits and pieces until some kid in Pumas informed me that "they were so six months ago." But objectively speaking, if you drowned out the noise and just listened to the music, it was brilliant. An old friend of mine hit the nail on the head by saying that they made rock sexy again (I guess they brought sexy back before JT). I would have to say the same goes for the burger at PYT.

This time around (and to the disdain of my arteries; sorry guys), I opted for the Fat Boy Monster, two patties, cheese, special sauce, bacon, and two onion rings. The challenge was not whether I could finish the thing, but how well it would travel back to Chestnut Hill (newborn baby and all). And the verdict? PYT knows how to cook a burger, season a burger, and top a burger. Cooked perfectly to temperature, each bite was juicier than the previous one, and although I got my stemless wine glass a bit greasy, it was totally worth the mess. I was also pleasantly surprised that it traveled so well. The fries were another story, but the onions they were tossed with made up for the expected sogginess.

I have to agree with the masses on service. I placed an order to go, so I suppose I'm an outlier, but it's clear as day how little of a shit the bar/waitstaff gives about the customers. It's almost like PYT is Leave it to Burgers from Silver Spoons and the staff are just extras in the background. Make no mistake, the vibe is fun, but a little bit of "how's everything?" goes a long way, and if it's what transforms good into great, I suggest Mr. Up give his employees a kick in the pants. Buen provecho.

Riding the Old Timey Wave

If we're being honest here, I recall that nostalgia for the good old days was reserved for the kids who sucked at sports (the same ones who sucked at drama but insisted they were good, or at least could pull it off at a high school level). The 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s were the test scores the cool kids got, not decades of bygone eras begging someone to say, "Those were the days." In recent times, however, it has become increasingly more badass to sidle up to the bar in your bespoke suit and order a cocktail that nobody's heard of since before your dad stopped drinking. Score one for the drama geeks for being way ahead of their time (and for continuing to ballroom dance at any cost), and score one for Jose Garces for capitalizing on old timey chic with Village Whiskey, a time warp of an establishment that makes you want to smoke a pack a day (indoors).

More important than the ambience, though, is the food. There's been a fair amount of dialogue regarding the Whiskey King, a culinary triple-dog dare of a burger piled high with the richest toppings imaginable. The right thing to do would be to accept the challenge, but it's best to leave it to the experts. Besides, I've had one thing and one thing only on my mind since Meal Ticket posted pictures earlier this month: short rib and cheddar french fries. So today (actually today), I braved the wind and the rain (could this also be considered 'going postal'?), sidled up to the bar (in khakis), and tucked into this most comfortable of comfort foods.

It was major.

Not only was the cast iron skillet of potatoes blanketed in sharp cheddar and tender beef, but there was a shallow bath of cheese sauce beneath! The potatoes themselves had a hint of cinnamon, making them taste like picking apples on a crisp Autumn afternoon (that's a good thing). You know the commercial where the snowman comes in from the cold, eats the soup, and transforms into a little kid? Eating cheddar and short rib fries is like that, but a million times better. There was also the added bonus of Sixpoint Righteous Rye on tap (the best I could do given the fact I had to go back to the office. As a side note, there's a wall of whiskey that would be worth the alcohol poisoning and/or job loss). Eventually, I'll get to the burger, but probably not before having another ten or twenty plates of these fries. I strongly recommend braving the crowds (lunch is probably better than dinner) just for these, but among the cocktails, booze selection, and food, there is certainly no shortage of great things to try. Buen provecho.

Village Whiskey is on 20th and Sansom, right next to Tinto. I got nicely sated for $24 including tip.

The Craving

I meant to write this back on 8/2, but time has certainly taken on a new meaning now that we have a new roommate.

I have to commend dear Mrs. Gastro for shattering each and every pregnancy stereotype out there, but I would be a filthy liar if I didn't say I was a little disappointed at the lack of cravings. If nothing else, it would have given me carte blanche to eat Taco Bell completely guilt free at her whimsy. But craving or not, every once in a while hunger would give way to something exotic and/or greasy. This time around, it was soup dumplings, something I haven't had since moving from NYC, and something that I sometimes miss even more than my SLC-based parents.

Baby Gastro's refusal to arrive on time left us with little do to but be angry about it. After the due date came and went, we almost felt like it wasn't going to happen, and my darling wife would be pregnant for the rest of her days (which would be kind of sweet because I'd have a permanent designated driver). This anger quickly became hunger, and before we knew it, we were avoiding eye contact with junkies and huffing gas fumes as we made our way into Dim Sum Garden, a well documented diamond in the rough and supposedly the only place in Philadelphia that serves up these gastronomic gobs of goodness.

I always find myself at Chinese restaurants during the staff lunch break, and this time was no exception. If I was in the middle of eating a three foot pile of lo mein, I wouldn't want to be disturbed either, so I had no expectations for prompt service. Besides, Mrs. Gastro wasn't going into labor anytime soon. When the waitress finally ambled over, we managed to spoil our dinner with soup dumplings, scallion pancakes, and a deep fried pork chop nestled among noodles that were more fettucine than lo mein. The dumplings were perfection, dredging up memories of the first time I ate them, anticipating a burnt mouth but caring very little as I bit into one resting on a spoon used to catch the broth, which was so rich and full of fat that it would become chewable at lower temperatures (that's a good thing). The scallion pancake was another success, a flaky crust surrounding a pastry dough interior, studded with green onions, and deceptively light. The deep fried pork chop was an afterthought, but by no means regretful. It was another rich dish, so meaty that if you told me the noodles were made of meat, I would have believed you.

What's odd about the whole experience, apart from that whole dining under an elevated parking garage next to a makeshift bus depot, is that we still can't figure out how soup dumplings even came up. Regardless, we'd go back every day if we could. Some things are just that delicious. Buen provecho.

Dim Sum Garden is located at 59 N 11th Street in Philadelphia, where the convention center meets Chinatown. It's not the best location, but your mom told you not to judge a book by its cover, and I suggest you do what your mom tells you. We got three menu items and two Cokes for $25 including tip. Cash or credit card, no booze.

Sunday Vacation

"This is the perfect hangover food." - Mrs. Gastro

After I got the email on Thursday, I wondered if there was a catch. "You and a guest are invited to try the new menu at PYT. Regards, Tommy Up." I also wondered how Mr. Up happened upon my name. Then there was the bit of trepidation that I'd show up today to some sort of shit show and not even get to eat, or worse, it would be like the dream where you're walking through the halls of your alma mater without pants. Thankfully, all of it was unfounded (and I remembered to wear pants), and in place of the anxiety was a straightforward meal that could work at any hour of the day.

Feeling a bit off from the car ride (if you're coming from Northwest Philadelphia, take note: there's a section of Germantown Avenue closed in a section where you don't really want to have to take a detour, so take Lincoln to Kelly, even if it's a bit longer of a ride), I was pleasantly surprised to see two words that pair better than a porterhouse and a cabernet, "free" and "parking." Having not yet been to the oasis that is the Piazza at Schmidt's, this was an added bonus, especially since we were running a bit late. An immediate seating awaited us, followed by a short delay, followed by a very apologetic and attentive server that completely made up for said delay. A Stone IPA and a coke spiked with cherry soda helped us wash down a simple cheddar burger (I haven't tasted a burger cooked that perfectly since my honeymoon) and a 'shroom burger, whose inspiration I had assumed came from Danny Meyer's Shake Shack (this was later corroborated by Mr. Up himself); you take two portobello caps, layer some cheese in between, batter and fry it, then top it with some special sauce and tuck it into a toasted bun. It's the alpha dog of veggie burgers, or maybe the funny fat kid. Whoever you're comparing it to, one things for sure: somehow it belongs with the meats, even though it showed up under the Bogus Burgers section of the menu. On the side, a sack of fries and a sack of onion rings. While I wasn't much for the fries (hard to get a handful with my mitt-like hands), the onion rings were in my top 3. Sturdy after the initial bite (I hate it when the onion slips out), well seasoned, and well battered. A chewy and sweet success.

To top it all off, the bartender came out with a special mojito that was more Lucy than Desi (that's good thing): strawberry infused prosecco in lieu of simple syrup, arriving at the latter end of the meal and offering a delicious palate cleanser. Another added bonus? Mrs. Gastro being with child meant two of these for me, and since I also ordered a Kenzinger after the Stone IPA, I gave myself a healthy buzz. Since I'm in agreement with her that this would be amazing hangover food, I guess I'll just have to head back to PYT tomorrow, non-gratis, but it's so good, I'd pay double what they're charging. Buen provecho.

PYT is located in The Piazza at Schmidt's. It's pretty hard to miss the three giant letters in the window, but if you're blind or just more interested in fitness, it's next to the running store. The food's cheap, and it's a great place to hang out. If I didn't have to drive home, I probably would have sat there all day cranking brew doggies. I'd also like to offer my apologies to our waitress. I would have left a bigger tip, but I only had 16 bucks on me. More photos here.

The Daddy Mac'll Make You

Pete's Famous was a perfect pit-stop on the way home from the Parkway festivities this past weekend, especially after wading through a crowd of ne'er-do-wells and drunken revelers with two pregnant ladies in tow (no easy feat). We managed to get one of the last tables of the night, and ignoring any sort of physical cues that I should have gone with something a little lighter, I ordered the Mac Daddy Burger Platter, not only because it was called the "Mac Daddy," but also because it was a cheeseburger topped with corned beef and Russian dressing.

Sandwiched between a home-grilled burger dinner and a home-grilled burger brunch, this overachieving middle child of a burger might be more aptly named "The Reuben surprise." I'm left to wonder (and possibly experiment on my own) what it might be like with kraut instead of pickles, but I was very pleased with how the pickles were used here; one lazy cut lengthwise, giving them a thickness that says, "Fuck you people, it's late and I'm sick of cutting pickles." Whether or not that was intentional, the two pickle halves stood up well next to the rest of the burger, which was an opulent mess of surpisingly fresh ingedients. The patty was a little overcooked, but the russian dressing (whether from a jar or house made, it erred on the mayo side, which is certainly preferable) saved the day. And even amidst the chaos of the teenage clientele in the place, the service was excellent. I'd definitely go back for the Mac (Daddy burger Platter). Buen provecho.

Pete's Famous is located at 116 N 21st Street (at Appletree). Mrs. Gastro got the pizza and gave it an OK. I think four of us got stuffed for $44 including beers for the non-pregnant eaters. Ordering the Mac Daddy Burger Platter will probably not make you a Mac Daddy, but it's still pretty damn good.

Chifauxtle

If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then El Fuego must really want to impress Chipotle. Then again, maybe they just want to capitalize on the silent-but-deadly cash cow that is the burrito boom, which, by all accounts, is alive and well in Philadelphia (we took the detour to El Fuego because the Qdoba line was out the door). There were a few missteps, but the next time D-Tron says, "You're coming with me to get burritos. Pick a place," I'll probably pick El Fuego.

Decorated and set up almost exactly like Chipotle, El Fuego has the same spacious and minimalist feel without the "hurry up and eat so others can sit down" vibe. I probably could have stayed there all afternoon (they serve beers, so I may have to make this happen one day). Going down the burrito assembly line, you have your usual suspects: grilled peppers and onions, grilled chicken, grilled beef, stewed beef, chorizo (I suppose they have to separate themselves somehow), and hot, medium, and mild salsa offerings. I went with the chorizo and immerdiately regretted it. I have a very specific idea of chorizo in my head and it's not the kind that looks and tastes like Hillshire Farm smoked sausage. Same foil, same basket, same price (same rice!), but when I peeled back said foil, the damn thing was cold, and the tortilla was brittle. The flavor was as you'd expect from the other guys (a very good thing), but eating a burrito is no fun if it falls apart on its way to your mouth. I'm hoping the next time will yield much better results. Until then, I'm going to tuck into the burrito lethargy that is par for the course with such a huge lunch. Buen provecho.

El Fuego is located at 2104 Chestnut St. and also at 723 Walnut St. I got way too much much food for $7.50. The tap water was free. And yes, that's a crappy picture.

Come for the Wings, Don't Stay for the Burger

Snug pants wishlist:

1. I wish I could wear them with little to no discomfort.

2. I wish I could fulfill that wish without having to resort to the extreme measure of starvation.

3. I wish I didn't belly flop off the starvation wagon last night, but at least I finally got to try the wings at Union Jack's in North Hills (Glenside).

4. I wish I would have stopped at the wings and not continued on with a burger.

I decided that my suit would fit marginally better if I limited my caloric intake to less than one hundred per day. As an alumnus of the Master Cleanser, I was confident that I could manage a 5 day hunger strike with the occasional bite of steamed spinach or gulp of fruit smoothie. And to be honest, after this past weekend, my body could definitely use some respite from the food abuse. I was doing just fine until Mrs. Gastro and I took a trip to USA Baby to test out a few gliders and pick up a toddler rail. To be more precise, I was doing just fine until I realized that Union Jack's was on the way home a little earlier in the day (although the lousy salesperson did absolutely nothing to take my mind off my mounting hunger with her stupid mouth full of stupid rice cakes and her stupid hard sell and empty threats about glider lead times and her stupid annoying voice. Honestly, who gives a sales pitch with a mouth full of rice cakes?).

Our home inspector let me in on this townie secret of a pub and their magical wings a few weeks earlier. After a gaggle of google results whose main theme was "best wings I've ever had," there was little doubt that this hunger strike had precious few hours left, so after Mrs. Gastro punched the USA Baby salesbitch in the face*, we raced there as fast as the traffic lights and our compact SUV would let us. When we arrived, the first good sign was that the parking lot was full. Even better, when we walked in, there was a booth waiting for us. Brief hiccup with the slow service, but understandable with the bartender doing double duty as the waitress. And then the wings arrived. A brief moment of knuckle cracking and expectations lowering (just in case), and then the gnawing commenced. This wing is classic. No breading, ample hot sauce (we compromised with medium), not the puny kind you get during a 25 cent wing night, and definitely not overcooked (as great as these wings were, some of them had a not-so-appetizing pinkish hue). In addition to the standard, Union Jack's also whips up sauces like honey Caribbean and Mexican jalapeño. Since this place is only 9 minutes from where we live, there's no question we will be back to try these.

But (big but here), we will most certainly not be back for the burgers. It could be guilt for breaking the fast, or it might just be that burgers are not the strong suit at Union Jack's. Feeling adventurous, I ordered the Big Ben, a bacon cheeseburger topped with HP Sauce, the English A-1. The patty was way overcooked and without salt, and because it was left on the grill too long, it was as dry as the kaiser roll it was served on. I am also a fool for thinking that HP Sauce on a burger is a good idea. Looking over at Mrs. Gastro's turkey burger, it was apparent that the same lack of care was taken in its preparation as well. Two huge disappointments. As an afterthought, I looked around to notice that the other tables were full of wings and nothing else. Maybe I should have taken my cue from the townies. Buen provecho.

Union Jack's is located at 2750 Limekiln Pike in Glenside, PA. Without drinking, we were able to get 10 wings and two burgers for $25 including tip. Cash only, but there's an ATM by the Golden Tee machine that you can use for the outrageous price of $2.00 plus whatever your bank fleeces you for.

*Actual punching may not have occurred

Two Out of Three Ain't Bad

Of the many options available to soak up the $3 Bud Light drafts at Drinker's Pub, their Buffalo Fries take the blue ribbon (probably because they were the only option sampled). The perfect storm of fried potatoes, Frank's Red Hot, shredded cheddar, and a blue cheese sauce fit for both sipping AND dipping was an excellent pre-Pub & Kitchen appetizer, but I couldn't tell you the reason why, aside from the fact that it gives me a nice segue into my review of the much buzzed about gastropub. What I can tell you is this: from the bar snacks to the mains, two out of three in each category ain't bad.

Bar Snacks:
Winner: Duck liver on toast. As smooth as meat butter gets. A schmear so perfectly schmeared that you didn't lose any with the inevitable toast crumble after the first enthusiastic bite.
Honorable Mention: White anchovies. Cured to perfection, with a wonderful vinegar finish that was an excellent complement to the Riverhorse beer special.
Loser: Potato pancake topped with smoked salmon and creme fraiche. I know it's passover and all, but much like the angel of death (great Slayer song), I would have been just fine passing over this one.

Appetizers:
Winner (tie): House made French style gnocchi. Everything about this dish (even the hint of mint) made me want to jump in a vat of it and eat my way out. The preparation was brilliant. The little pasta peeps were pan seared and tossed with olive oil and queso fresco, and every bite was a bittersweet reminder that eventually the bowl would be empty.
Winner (tie): Scallops in a rich sauce that made me wish I was at home so I could lick the plate clean (no joke). It's hard to fuck up a scallop, but I think it's even harder to elevate it past being just a scallop. The latter applies here.
Loser: Mussels. Shame on me for thinking, for whatever reason, that the advertised beer and sausage broth did not contain whole links of sausage.

Mains:
Winner: Steak with hotel butter, roasted potatoes, and arugula. I normally don't like to order steak outside of a steakhouse, but this turned out to be a great call. Expertly seasoned and cooked, the melt-in-your-mouth texture was only made richer by topping it with hotel butter.
Honorable Mention: Oysters on the half shell. Rhode Island sent a great batch of oysters over to Pub & Kitchen. As mild as the calm just before Saturday's storm.
Loser: Fluke with roasted asparagus and risotto. The mint from the gnocchi showed up again in the risotto, but it didn't work this time. The fluke needed salt, and the asparagus was a sad few limp spears.

An excellent meal from start to finish. The service was of the "your-water-glass-will-never-be-empty" caliber. The soundtrack was current, loud enough to sing along to (if you're cool enough to know the songs), but not too loud so as to drown out the conversation. Mrs. Gastro would definitely approve, and we plan to eat here in the very near future. Buen Provecho.


Pub & Kitchen, if you don't already know (meaning that you should) is located at 1946 Lombard St. in Philadelphia. Budgetwise, I'd wait until you have an out-of-town guest or other similar occasion where you'd like to show off. If you're still into that whole debt thing, they take major credit cards, but not reservations.