A Stupid List About Hangover Food

I got blotto last night and since I'm old as shit I'll be paying for it until Sunday, during which time I'll consume at least triple the amount of calories I average on a daily basis. We've all been there (and we all have yet to learn), so the next time you spend the night alternating between Fireball and Miller Lite for 6 hours, here's a handy list of food to shove in your face the morning after. It probably won't make you feel better, but it's worth a shot.

1. Menudo (or Posole): I blame my dad for a lot of things, but I have to give him credit for taking me to hole-in-the-wall places at a very young age. One of them, Taqueria Piedras Negras in Salt Lake, had menudo on Sundays. Pops knew exactly why. "It's a hangover cure," he said (I didn't really know what a hangover was, or how often I would be getting them later in life). Then he proceeded to tell me that the gelatinous honey combs I was eating used to be a cow's stomach. Then he dumped a shitload of onions and cilantro in my bowl and gave it a generous squeeze of lime. Fuck, I could really go for some menudo right about now.

2. Sausage, Egg, and Cheese croissant from Dunkin' Donuts: Pair it with an iced coffee that's more cream and sugar than actual coffee. If you're feeling especially shitty, order two, because they're kind of small.

3. Spam Musubi: If you have an aversion to Spam, you're dumb. Spam is goddamn delicious, and if you fry it up and glaze it with what is essentially teriyaki sauce, it's even more delicious. Put it on top of a sushi rice brick and wrap it up with nori and you've got a near perfect food.

4. Ultimate Meat & Cheese Breakfast Burrito from Sonic: If you're lucky enough to have a Sonic nearby, this has all of the breakfast meats, a generous ladle of cheese sauce, and TATER TOTS.

5. Five Guys: Put every single topping on their double cheeseburger, douse a giant order of fries with malt vinegar, and don't be shy with the free soda refills.

Alternatively, you can just start drinking again. It's 9am somewhere. Buen provecho.

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Gene Finley

There is no better way to capture the essence of the Claire Finley Memorial Beef and Beer than interviewing the man behind the magic, especially when the interview is shot with an iPhone and the audio sucks because neither of us are wearing a mic and the background noise is fueled by endless pitchers of beer.  The camerawork leaves even more to be desired (sorry, Matt, you won't be winning an Oscar for cinematography anytime soon).  Regardless, mistakenly attending this event four years ago has allowed me to watch it grow like a weed, and in case you can't hear the interview that well, Gene's been able to raise some serious cash for scholarships awarded in his sister's honor.  If there were more people like this in the world, I would sleep better at night.  Gene, congrats on another successful year*.  Buen provecho.

*Success limited to the fundraising of the event only. After three years of winning baskets, Team Gastro was shut out this year. The box of Baby Ruth bars was a nice consolation prize, however.

Why Did I Eat This?

 

With all of the crap I've been eating lately, I may as well just change the name of the blog to "Why Did I Eat This?" or maybe, "How Am I Still Alive?"  I suppose there's the possibility of a spinoff, but nine times out of ten, spinoffs are depressingly unsuccessful (did anyone watch "Joey"?  If you did, please stop reading now because you're making my blog a lot less cooler than it should be).  Speaking of which, I was able to catch the Sixers vs. Jazz* game this past Friday, and in true fat ass fashion, I spent more time back and forth to the vendors than I did watching the Jazz crush the poor Sixers (actually, since there was literally nobody there, the food lines weren't that long, so I think I may have managed to see at least half of it).

I really miss the days when basketball was cool.   Nowadays, the freakishly tall dudes just look bored running up and down the court.  It's kind of sad, but if nothing else, it gives me an excuse to eat arena food, and as written so eloquently in a previous post, it gets better as you get closer to the action.  The poor saps eating hot dogs way up high (even though they could have easily walked down) ain't got nothin' on two of my favorites: chili cheese fries and boneless buffalo wings.  As you can see above, the chips are replaced with french fries in these Irish nachos, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, especially when you have a fork to do your bidding.  I love the redundancy of cheese and sour cream.  It's like wearing belts and suspenders, or so I've heard.

This last one's a little blurry, but it's still easy to see that this is a chunk of breaded and fried chicken slathered with a gut gouging combination of hot sauce and bleu cheese.  By the time we got to these, I think the beers had made their way to my dome piece, giving them the appearance that they were going out of style (get it? I ate them really fast).  The murderous pairing of all of this processed goodness with upwards of twelve beers racked up a major digestive debt that I was left to settle the next day, and although I enjoyed it at the time, I am once again left wondering why I ate this.  Buen provecho.

*Before you comment on how John Stockton was the cheapest player in the NBA, I already know, and I don't care.  As the all-time assist leader, his generosity with the rock cancels out any cheapness.  Eat it.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 6
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 10.5
Total: 23.5

As of late, I'm either too busy or too boring to maintain this damn blog, but at least I've been able to find the time to eat cheesesteaks (two in the "other" row since last time). The first of the two "other" steaks came from Fiesta Pizza in Chestnut Hill. It didn't suck at all. The movie we watched, "Rachel Getting Married," was a different story. I'd like those two hours back.

"Other" steak number two came by way of an increasingly rare late night run to Chubby's, one which might have been a little safer on foot (although the sub-compact rental car handled great in the Manayunk hills despite the BAC of the driver). Mushrooms (from a can) are starting to make their way into my steaks these days. The brine adds the appropriate amount of saltiness, and since they've been sitting in a can for Jeebus-knows-how-long, the fungus taste is muted (and then further muted by my heavy handed hot sauce/mayonnaise one-two punch) to a volume just above a whisper. That's all for now. Buen provecho.

Chains, Chains, Shackles, and Chains

As twitter increasingly becomes my photoless-in-the-moment medium, I've become neglectful of my non-twitter devotees. My sincerest apologies. Anyhoo, nothing specatacular to report except maybe a post-childbirth class Chili's excursion (I saw one of those giant red chili peppers sitting on a gurney in the hospital, so we had to go). In these economic times (which are still totally going on), the chain gangs are now offering meals under (insert piddly dollar amount that will only serve to make you drink more) bucks. This turns out to be a blessing in disguise, because cheaper chain food means smaller portions means not having to ask, "Why did I eat this?" after eating a giant burger with bacon that looks more like roof shingles than food. In fact, our expectations were so low from the post-it's a girl Chili's excursion that we were pleasantly surprised with our tiny little burgers and buffalo chicken sandwiches (although my Miller Lite was miles away from being crisp and refreshing). Buen provecho.

We went to the Chili's on City Ave. Service was okay. One appetizer, two $7 meals, and a brew doggie came to $33 including tip. I hope Chili's doesn't sue me for using the image above

Beefsteak Redux

When the cold winds blow in from the north (or when James googles "beefsteak dinner"), the beefsteak-as-fundraiser season is upon us. Last year's outing left us begging for more, and even the recent move to Philadelphia couldn't prevent me from taking in another beefsteak as soon as I got the chance. With my expectations boiling over, I recruited a fellow glutton to join me on the two hour drive to Verona, NJ, for the Broken Arrow District Boy Scouts of America Annual Beefsteak Dinner. If you think that's a mouthful, have a gander at the (crappy) pictures.

This year proved to be a much more muted affair compared to last, although I'm certain the beer was much more abundant this time around. I imagine this windfall can be blamed on those in attendance, a sparse crowd with a median age of 49. And while the Verona Community Center was a nice facility, the low ceilings and dim lights added to the "4pm dinnertime at the nursing home" ambience. Thankfully, nobody tried to give us the wrong pills or steal our wallets. I'm getting off topic here. Back to the food, which was catered by Nightingale, the original beefsteak catering service since the 1930s. We were running a bit late (Che was even later), and by the time we arrived, the tenderloin was making its final rounds. Thankfully, the two waiters circling the dining room concetrated their efforts on our table, and before we knew it, our plates were piled almost a foot high with buttery tenderloin and crispy freedom fries. It was enough to satisfy, but not enough to make us sick, which was a bit of a disappointment, especially because the final hour of the event did not have a comedy hypnotist to help the food settle. Instead, there were some pretty crappy raffles, made only crappier by DG's preference for statistics over gambling (he put all his tickets into one basket). As the crowd shuffled out, making it awkward for us to stick around and drink, we figured it was time for us to do the same. We were graciously thanked by the organizers for showing up, who were quite surprised that their beefsteak had attendees from both NYC and Philadelphia. We thanked them back by taking beers for the road. Until next year's carnage, buen provecho.

I Sure Do Love a Good Bender

The amazingness that was last week (after pretty much the best weekend of my life):

Monday: A ticket to the World Series. Like a hypoxic mountaineer just steps from the summit of Everest, I deluded myself into the notion that the game would go on. Prior to the cats and dogs, however, I finally had the Schmitter, which I've been meaning to try since I heard some jerk talk about it during the cleanse. It sets itself apart from the ubiquitous cheesesteak by adding fried tomato, salami, and russian dressing, and to rationalize the gluttony, it's served on a kaiser roll. Sadly, my high expectations were met with disappointment, more than likely because it was a windy 40 degrees at the stadium, so the whole thing was cold after the first bite. I refuse to give up, though, and thankfully, the establishment that created the Schmitter just so happens to be in my neighborhood.

Wednesday: After unloading my ticket to a neurotic Indian, Mrs. Gastro and I joined the Gastro-in-laws for cheesesteaks from Delassandro's (my new 2nd favorite cheesesteak) and cheese fries from Chubby's (near and far, nothing compares to Pat's cheese fries, but these are in the ballpark). Unlike Pat's and Geno's, the steak is of the chopped variety, and there's a pile of it three feet high on the grill at any given time of day, so even if you call it in, they don't make it until you show up. Not exactly cooked to order. I think the beef could have used a little more salt, but I numbed my tongue with cherry peppers to cope with this. After dinner, the fightin' Phils won the World Series, which meant a stroll down Manayunk's Main Street, and more whiskey and colas than necessary, partly because of this, but primarily because I turned 30.

Thursday: Visit number four to Qdoba (please don't remind me that I hated the first visit. I know), which I've dubbed the pork burrito visit (and every fourth time from here on out, I will get pork). The assembly line put double of everything on it, and the result was a two pound behemoth that I probably shouldn't have finished. Then again, I probably shouldn't have drank my face off the night before.

Friday: A day off from work and a Wawa hoagie. If you don't know, I feel sorry for you. In the evening, a novelty costume and too much Red Bull. It usually doesn't work, but this time I was screaming at everyone I was with and laughing like a stupid banshee. My apologies to all who were with me.

Saturday: Just like the man upstairs, I saw that it was all good, so I finally got some rest. And some Chinese take-out.

Bender complete. Buen Provecho.

Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood

Rather than seek out new and interesting places to try (last night would have been an ideal night for a sports bar to watch the Phillies jonron their way out of a two run deficit), we settled for Applebee's, which makes sense because it's the halfway point between us and the in-laws, and also where our waiter was kind enough to let us order half price appetizers before 9pm. Problem is, when you're getting such a sweet deal (yes, even if you're eating mounds of heavily salted carcinogens, it's still a sweet deal), you could completely render the deal null and void by ordering way more than you need. This is exactly what my fat ass did, and between four people, we managed to rack up $100 worth of food and drink. At Applebee's. That's like spending more than five bucks at taco bell. Buen provecho.

Resolve

Take note: traveling and cleansing do not play nice in the sandbox. Yet another test of wills yesterday as I got stuck in the conference room seat directly in front of the bagels, and subsequently, the sandwiches. But today is the last day of this torture. I'm a little disappointed at the amount of weight loss, but I think that's more a function of the fact that I became such a fat shit. Alas, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, right?

Mental status: I'm no longer crazy, but I am a little angry
Tummy status: Ready to eat buffalo wings, tomato pie, cheesesteak, pizza, chicken parm, soup dumplings, and pork fried rice all in one sitting (and wash it down with an assortment of beers, including Miller Lite).
Energy level: Still way up, although it was tough getting out of bed this morning.

Tomorrow I drink orange juice and eat vegetable soup. I'm accelerating the reintroduction of food (which could be bad), but I'm flippin' starving. See you on the other side. Buen provecho.

Numb

Like the frostbitten mountaineers less than one hundred feet from the peak of Everest, I have become devoid of feeling. And poop. The morning hums along and I am literally empty. Last night I played squash for the first time in three months. I was surprised that I didn't pass out from lack of food. I was not surprised that I flailed about the court and generally sucked the big one. No ball control, poor T management, flat feet. It was all wrong. Luckily the new club has no court fees and is seemingly uncrowded (6 courts and 138 members), so I can catch up on much needed practice. Getting back to the cleanse, I'm starting to wonder what will happen in it's wake. Will I submerge myself in a grease-laden sea of fast food? Or will I follow Mr. Burroughs' hippie ass advice and only eat raw? I wish I could subscribe to the Marc McGehan diet: rice and beans and more rice. One thing is for sure. I'm definitely going to get shitfaced. Buen provecho.

Tailgating

If burgers and budweisers aren't your thing for pre-game eats, Jackson Diner offers a great alternative right off the 7 train. Don't let the name fool you, the cuisine is Indian, and it's worth leaving a bit early to make a pit stop before Shea (although I did find it to be overpriced).

Located in a strip mall that offers everything from cell phones to Saris, Jackson Diner's sprawling dining room seems better fit for a monsoon wedding than a tailgate, but the Taj Mahal beer offers common ground, and even though there were no blue mountains on the label, the beer was just as crisp and refreshing as its rocky mountain alternative. After a few bottles to numb the tongue, start with samosas (classic) and paneer pakora (possibly classic, but nothing I've seen on Indian menus), and don't be shy with the green and brown sauce. The appetizers offer even more common ground due to the fact that they are deep fried. I imagine if we were tailgating at a cricket match, samosas and pakoras would be the snack of choice.

After a few piquant potato pockets and chewy cheese chunks, we ordered lamb korma, malai kofta, and chicken tikka makhanwala. To soak up the extra sauce, we ordered a couple of naan that were graciously divided for us to share (note: the garlic naan sucks unless you are in the vampire business). As much of a meat eater as I am, the clear winner of the three was the malai kofta, but I would have to say that it was all in the sauce. It had the appropriate amount of heat and it didn't stick with you, which allowed me to actually taste the other two dishes instead of giving me a numb tongue and a mouthful of spices that are supposedly exotic (even though I can get them at Met Food across the street). The korma and the tikka makhanwala (which I secretly hoped to be tikka masala with a different name) were both delicious, but definitely not life changing, and the portions were a little off. We had a ton of sauce left over once we finished the naan and the rice.

Overall, in Queens, each of these dishes were much spicier than any Manhattan counterpart, even in curry hill or curry row (although most of those places suck just as much as Jackson Diner's garlic naan). This could create issues once you're at the game, especially since the last place you want to be sitting is a wet seat smeared with muddy air force one footprints in the upper mezzanine toilet. If your stomach was not made for spicy food (i.e. you're a white boy), maybe stick to tailgating. Buen provecho.

The State of Stadium Food

Recent developments in my career have allowed me the luxury of attending live sporting events, and I have made the following observations:

1. The closer you are to the field/glass/court, the better the access to chicken fingers. In fact, at field/glass/court level, you can even get sushi. However, my wife is the only person allowed to order sushi without being subject to endless ridicule and dirty looks. Time and place, people, time and place.

2. When other people pay for it, the beer tastes better. But no matter how delicious it may be, it's never a good idea to order 12 beers on someone else's tab, especially if you don't have the aisle seat.

3. This has nothing to do with food, but it should be noted that sporting events are no place for kids, unless your kids are allowed to drop the f-bomb at home and pick fights with people who wear the wrong jersey.

Buen Provecho.

This is the Place

A few notes about Salt Lake City, UT:

1. Holy crap is it easy to get to the slopes. Half an hour door-to-door, no crowds once you're up there, and the cushiest snow imaginable. If you're extreme like me, this is a plus.

2. Holy crap does the beer taste like carbonated water. Ever ordered a coke and it came out clear and tasted just like club soda? Kind of like that, except you feel extra bloated and you can't send it back because that's what it's supposed to taste like. One can only depend on brewer buddy Adam Curfew for quality suds. If you're planning a trip, let me know and I'll make sure he gets you sorted out.

3. There are a whole host of Mexican fast foot joints that kill it: Alberto's, Beto's, Los Betos, Molcasalsa. All open 24 hours a day, so if you've got the drunk munchies and are willing to risk the DUI, the burritos are unbelievable, plentiful, and cheap.

Basically, it's the best place to snowboard, but the worst place to drink.